1^ 


THE  JAMES  D.  PHELAN 
CELTIC  COLLECTION 


9rx 


WT 


December,  1849. 

A  LIST  OF  BOOKS 

BECENTLY   PUBLISHED   BY 

TICKNOR,   REED,   AND   FIELDS 


Z.OlTGFEIiZ.O'W'S  POEMS. 


THE  SEASIDE  AND  THE  FIRESIDE.     Just  is- 

sued.    In  one  volume,  16mo,  price  75  cents. 

EVANGELINE  ;   a  Tale  of  Acadie.     In  one  vol- 
ume, 16mo,  price  75  cents. 

III. 

VOICES  OF  THE  NIGHT.     A  New  Edition.     In 

one  volume,  16mo,  price  75  cents. 

IT. 

BALLADS  AND  OTHER  POEMS.     A  New  Edi- 

tlon.    In  one  volume,  16mo,  price  75  cents. 

T. 

SPANISH  STUDENT.     A  Play  in  Three  Acts.    A 

Hew  Edition.    In  one  volume,  16mo,  price  75  cents. 

VI. 

BELFRY    OF   BRUGES    and   OTHER   POEMS. 

A  New  Edition.    In  one  volume,  16mo,  price  75  cents. 

TII. 

THE  WAIF.     A  Collection  of  Poems.      Edited  by 

LoHOFBLLow.    A  New  Edition.    In  one  volume,  ICmo,  price  75  cents. 

VIII. 

THE  ESTRAY.     A  Collection  of  Poems.     Edited 

by  Longfellow.    In  one  volume,  IGmo,  price  75  cents. 


iiOirGFz:z.i.ow's  froszs  -works. 


I. 

KAVANAGH.    A  Tale.    Lately  Published.    In  one 

volume,  16mo,  price  75  cents. 

II. 

OUTRE-MER.      A   Pilgrimage  Beyond  the  Sea. 

A  New  Edition.    In  one  volume,  16mo,  price  $1.00. 
III. 

HYPERION.     A  Romance.     A  New  Edition.     In 

one  volume,  16mo,  price  $1.00. 


A  LIST  OP  BOOKS  RECENTLY  PUBLISHED 


FOETRir. 


OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES.     Poems.     In  one 

volume,  16mo.    J\ew  Edition,  Enlarged.    Just  out.    Price  $1.00. 
II. 

CHARLES     SPRAGUE.       Poetical    and    Piiose 

Writings.    New  and  Revised  Edition,    in  one  volume,  16mo,  price  75 
centg. 

III. 

ROBERT     BROWNING.       Complete     Poetical 

Works.    In  two  volumes,  16mo.    Price  $2.00. 
IV. 

ALFRED  TENNYSON.     Poems.     A  New  Edition. 

Enlarged,  with  Portrait.     In  two  volumes,  16mo,  price  $1.50. 
V. 

ALFRED  TENNYSON.   The  Princess.   A  Medley. 

Just  out.    In  one  volume,  16mo,  price  50  cents. 
VI. 

WILLIAM  MOTHERWELL.     Poems,   Narrative 

and  Lyrical.    A  New  Edition,  Enlarged.      In  one  volume,  16mo,  price 
75  cents. 

VII. 

WILLIAM  MOTHERWELL.   Minstrelsy,  Ancient 

and  Modern.   With  an  HlSTOR[CAL  INTRODUCTION  and  NOTES. 
In  two  volumes,  16mo,  price  $1.50. 

VIII. 

RICHARD  MONCKTON  MILNES.  Poems  of  Many 

Years.    In  one  volume,  16mo,  price  75  cents. 
IX. 

LEIGH  HUNT.    Story  of  Rimini  and  Other  Poems. 

In  one  volume,  16mo,  price  50  cents. 

X. 

REJECTED  ADDRESSES.     From  the  19th  London 

Edition.     Carefully  Revised.     With  an   Original  Preface  and  Notes. 
By  Horace  and  James  Smith.    In  one  volume,  16mo,  price  50  cents. 

XI. 

BARRY  CORNWALL.      English  Songs  and  other 

Small  Poems.     In  one  volume,  16mo,  price  75  cents. 
XII. 

JOHN  BOWRING.      Matins   and   Vespers,   with 

Hymns  and  Occasional  Devotional  Pieces.    In  one  volume,  32mo, 
cloth,  gilt  edges,  price  37  1-2  cents. 

XIII. 

EPES    SARGENT.       Songs   op    the   Sea,    with 

Other  Poems.     In  one  volume,  16mo,  price  50  cents. 

BACH    OP    THE    ABOVE    POEMS    AND    PROSE  WRITINGS,  MAY   BE    HAD   IN 
VARIOUS   STYLES  OF   HANDSOME    BINDING. 


BY  TICKNOR,  REED,  AND  FIELDS. 


xozscxsiiZi^Linsous. 


ALDERBROOK ;  A  Collection  of  Fanny  Forester's 

ViLLAGR  Sketches,  Poems,  etc.      In  two  volumes,  12mo,  with  a  fi(i0 
Portrait  «f  the  Author.     A  New  Edition,  Enlarged.    Just  out. 

11. 

GREENWOOD  LEAVES.     A  Collection  of  Grace 

Greenwood's  Stories  and  Letters.    In  one  volume,  ]2ino.    Just  pub- 
lished.   Price  $1.25. 

lit. 

EDWIN  P.   WHIPPLE.      Lectures    on  Subjects 

CONNECTED   WITH    LITERATURE  AND    LiFE.      In  OnC  Volume,  IGlUO.    JuSt 

published.   Price  63  cents. 

JOHN  G.  WHITTIER.     Old  Portraits  and  Mod- 

ERN  Sketches.     la  one  volume,  16mo.    Just  published. 

T. 

JOHN  G.  WHITTIER.     Margaret  Smith's  Jour- 

NAL.    In  one  volume,  IGmo. 

VI. 

HENRY  GILES.     Lectures,  Essays,  and  Miscel- 
laneous Writings.  Two  volumes,  16mo. 

VII. 

THOMAS  DE  aUINCEY.     Miscellaneous   Wri- 

tings,  including  the  "  Confessions  of  an  English  Opium  Eat£R," 
&,c.  &c.     (In  Press.) 

Via. 

THE  BOSTON  BOOK  for  1850.      Being   Speci- 

MENS  OP  Metropolitan  Literature.     In  one  volume,  12mo.    (Just 
issued.) 

IX. 

CHARLES  SUMNER.    Orations  and  Public  Ad- 

DRESSES.    In  two  volumes,  I2mo.     In  Press. 


HEROINES  OF  THE  CHURCH.    Being  Memoirs 

OF  Distinguished  American  Female  Missionaries.  In  one  volume, 
16mo. 

F.  W.  P.  GREENWOOD.     Sermons  of  Consola- 

TiON.    A  New  Edition,  on  very  fine  paper  and  large  type.  In  one  volume, 
16mo,  price  $1.00. 

Xll. 

CHARACTERISTICS  OF  WOMEN  :  Moral,  Po- 

ETicAL  and  Historical.    By  Mrs.  Jameson.    New  Edition,  Corrected 
and  Enlarged.    In  one  volume,  12mo,  price  $1.00. 


BEN  PERLEY  POORE.     The  Rise  and  Fall  of 

Louis  Philippe,  with  Pen  and  Pencil  SketohoB  of  his  Friends  and  his 
Successors.    Portraits.    $1.0<>. 


4         BOOKS  PUBLISHED  BY  TICKNOR,  REED,  AND  FIELDS. 

XI T. 

MRS.  PUTNAM'S  RECEIPT  BOOK;  and  Young 

Housekeeper's  Assistant.    A  JNow  and  Enlarged  Ldition.    In  6ne  vol- 
ume, 16mo,  price  50  cents. 


THE  CONSTITUTION  OF  MAN ;  Considered  in 

Relation  to  External  Objects.  By  George  Combe.  With  an  Additional 
Chapter,  on  the  HARMONY  BETWEEN  PHRKNOLOGY  AND  REV- 
ELATION. By  J.  A.  Warne,  A.  M.  Twenty-seventh  American  Edi- 
tion.   In  one  volume,  12mo,  price  75  cents. 

XVI. 

A  PRACTICAL  TREATISE  on  THE  CULTIVA- 
TION OF  THE  GRAPE  VINE  ON  OPEN  WALLS,  To  which  is 
added,  a  Descriptive  Account  of  an  Improved  Method  of  Planting  and 
Managing  the  Roots  of  Grape  Vines.  W^ith  Plates.  In  one  volume, 
12mo,  price  62  1-2  cents. 

xvir. 

ORTHOPHONY  ;    Or  the  Culture  of  the  Voice  in 

Elocution.  A  Manual  of  Elementary  Exercises,  adapted  to  Dr.  Rush's 
"  PHILOSOPHY  OF  THE  HUMAN  VOICE,"  and  the  system  of  Vocal 
Culture  introduced  by  Mr.  James  E.Murdoch.  Designed  as  an  Intbo- 
DtrcTioN  to  Russell's  "AMERICAN  ELOCUTIONIST."  Compiled 
by  William  Russell,  author  of  "  Lessons  in  Enunciation,"  etc.  With 
a  Supplement  on  PURITY  OF  TONE,  by  G.  J.  Webb,  Professor,  Boston 
Academy  of  Music.  Improved  Edition.  In  one  volume,  12mo,  price 
621-2  cents. 

XVIII. 

ANGEL-VOICES  ;  or  Words  of  Counsel  for  Over- 
coming the  World.  In  one  volume,  18mo.  A  New  Edition,  Enlarged. 
Price  38  cents. 


FREzrca. 


COUNT  DE  LAPORTE'S  FRENCH  GRAMMAR; 

Containing  all  the  Rules  of  the  Language,  upon  a  New  and  Improved 
Plan.  New  (Stereotype)  Edition.  1  vol.  12mo,  half-embossed  morocco, 
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COUNT  DE  LAPORTE'S   SPEAKING   EXERCI- 

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rocco, 63  cents, 

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Bound  in  1  volume,  half-embossed  morocco,  $1.00. 

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READER.  For  the  Study  of  the  Pronunciation  of  the  French  Lan-, 
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The  above  Series  is  used  in  the  Universities  of  Cambridge,  Hanover,  and  Fir- 

^inia,  as  well  as  in  many  other  Colleges,  Academies,  and  Schools, 

in  J\rew  England  and  elsewhere. 


LECTURES  AND  ESSAYS 


BY 


HENRY    GILES 


IN    TWO     VOLUMES. 
VOLUME  I. 


BOSTON: 
TICKNOR,    REED,    AND    FIELDS 

MDCCC  L. 


PHELAN 

Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1350,  by 

TICKNOE,  REED,  AND  FIELDS, 

In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of 

Massachusetts. 


boston: 

THURSTON,    TORRY,    AND   COMPANY, 
31  Devonshire  Street. 


PREFACE. 

The  greater  part  of  the  following  pages  consists  of  oral 
addresses,  delivered  in  mixed  and  popular  assemblies.  The 
author,  in  giving  them  to  the  press,  acts  upon  a  desire 
expressed  in  various  directions  to  see  them  in  this  form ;  and 
if  they  shall  be  read  with  a  portion  of  the  kindness  with 
which  they  were  heard,  the  author  will  be  content.  He  is 
clearly  aware,  that  they  have,  in  full  measure,  the  faults  that 
mark  the  class  of  compositions  to  which  they  belong,  but  he 
trusts  that  they  are  not  wholly  wanting  in  some  of  the  charac- 
teristic merits  of  such  compositions.  The  author  does  not 
presume  to  attribute  any  permanent  or  critical  value  to  these 
pages;  yet  to  the  author,  personally,  they  have  a  greater 
value,  though  of  another  kind  ;  they  call  up  hours  passed 
in  living  communion  with  his  audiences ;  memories  of  gen- 
erous sympathies,  of  hospitable  bounties,  of  friendly  en- 
couragements, of  general  regard,  which  he  would  scarcely 
exchange  for  the  proudest  merely  literary  reputation. 

802142 


IV  P  11  E  F  A  C  E  . 

The  other  pieces,  as  will  be  seen,  were  contributed  to 
periodicals.  The  principal  of  them  were  furnished  to  a 
religious  journal,  and  are  accordingly  of  a  subdued  and 
serious  tone. 

The  circumstances  of  the  author  left  him  but  few  oppor- 
tunities for  sustained,  close,  consecutive  study.  But  though 
compelled  to  write  casually  and  hastily,  he  has  always  endea- 
vored to  write  truthfully  and  thoughtfully. 

Boston,  January,  1S50. 


CONTENTS. 

FALSTAFF    .,,.,.  1 

CRABBE 45 

MORAL    PHILOSOPHY    OF    BYRON's    LIFE        ....  93 
MORAL    SPIRIT    OF    BYROn's    GENIUS        .       .      .       .       .130 

EBENEZER    ELLIOTT 1G6 

OLIVER  GOLDSMITH 218 

SPIRIT    OF    IRISH   HISTORY .  Qr.8 


LECTUEES  AND  ESSAYS. 


FALSTAFF. 


A   TYPE    OF    EPICUEEAN   LIFE. 


Our  purpose  in  the  present  Essay  is  to  make  some 
remarks  on  the  character  of  FalstafF,  and  on  that  phase 
of  human  life  which  the  character  presents  and  illus- 
trates. 

When  George  the  Fourth  was  Prince  of  Wales,  every 
body  knows  that  he  had  a  dandy  companion  called 
Beau  Brummell,  and  every  body  also  knows,  that  for 
some  liberty  taken  with  his  royalty,  the  prince  dis- 
carded the  dandy.  The  anecdote  is  equally  familiar, 
that  one  day  Brummell  and  a  nobleman  of  his  ac- 
quaintance came  casually  in  contact  with  the  prince, 
when  the  prince  courteously  noticed  the  lord,  and 
studiously  slighted  the  beau.     The  beau  with  the  most 

VOL.  I.  1 


2'*    -•"->'     -•■    -'^LjECTuaES   AND   ESSAYS. 

imperturbable  indifference,  while  his  highness  was  yet 
in  hearing,  said  to  the  lord,  "  Pray  who  is  that  fat 
friend  of  yours  ? "  We  have  here  to  speak  of  one, 
who  was  not  indeed  a  fat  Prince  of  Wales,  but  a  very 
fat  friend  to  a  very  lean  Prince  of  Wales :  indeed  a  fat 
man  is  almost  synonymous  with  a  fat  friend.  There  is 
something  cordial  in  a  fat  man.  Every  body  likes  him, 
and  he  likes  every  body.  Your  Ishmaelites  are,  in 
truth,  a  bareboned  race;  a  lank  tribe  they  are,  —  all 
skeleton  and  bile.  Food  does  a  fat  man  good  ;  it  clings 
to  him  ;  it  fructifies  upon  him  ;  he  swells  nobly  out, 
and  fills  a  generous  space  in  life.  He  is  a  living, 
walking-minister  of  gratitude  to  the  bounty  of  the  earth 
and  the  fullness  thereof ;  an  incarnate  testimony  against 
the  vanities  of  care  ;  a  radiant  manifestation  of  the 
wisdom  of  good  humor.  A  fat  man,  therefore,  almost 
in  virtue  of  being  a  fat  man,  is,  per  se,  a  popular  man  ; 
and  commonly  he  deserves  his  popularity.  In  a  crowd- 
ed vehicle  the  fattest  man  will  ever  be  the  most  ready 
to  make  room.  Indeed,  he  seems  half  sorry  for  his 
size,  lest  it  be  in  the  way  of  others ;  but  others  would 
not  have  him  less  than  he  is ;  for  his  humanity  is 
usually  commensurate  with  his  bulk.  A  fat  man  has 
abundance  of  rich  juices.  The  hinges  of  his  system 
are  well  oiled  ;  the  springs  of  his  being  are  noiseless  ; 
and  so  he  goes  on  his  way  rejoicing,  in  full  content- 


FALSTAFF.  O 

ment  and  placidity.  It  is  not  thus  with  your  thin 
people  ;  the  disease  of  leanness  has  manifold  discom- 
forts. Their  joints  are  dry ;  they  creak  like  rusty 
axles,  and  from  the  want  of  due  moisture,  their  tempers 
become  as  sharp  as  their  bones.  A  fat  man  feels  his 
position  solid  in  the  world  ;  he  knows  that  his  being  is 
cognisable ;  he  knows  that  he  has  a  marked  place  in 
the  universe,  and  that  he  need  take  no  extraordinary 
pains  to  advertise  mankind  that  he  is  among  them  ;  he 
knows  that  he  is  in  no  danger  of  being  overlooked. 
Your  thin  man  is  uncertain,  and  therefore  he  is  uneasy. 
He  may  vanish  any  hour  into  nothing  ;  already  he  is 
almost  a  shadow,  and  hence  it  is  that  he  uses  such 
laborious  efforts  to  convince  you  of  his  existence ;  to 
persuade  you  that  he  is  actually  something ;  that  he  is 
more  than  non-entity ;  that  he  is  a  positive  substance  as 
well  as  his  corpulent  fellow-creature.  To  make  this 
the  more  apparent,  he  tries  with  all  his  might  to  com- 
pensate the  weakness  of  his  step  by  the  rapidity  of  his 
motions,  and  the  feebleness  of  his  voice  by  the  solemn 
dignity  of  his  utterance.  But  what  a  vain  task  is  his ! 
The  fat  man  has  only  to  appear,  and  the  creature  is 
absolutely  lost  in  the  ample  obscurity  of  the  fat  man's 
shadow  ;  the  fat  man  has  only  to  speak,  and  he  drowns 
the  treble  squeal  of  his  fleshless  brother,  in  the  depths 
of  his  bass,  as  the  full  swell  of  an  organ  overpowers 


4  LECTURES   AND   ESSAYS. 

the  whistle  of  a  penny  trumpet.  The  fat  man  has  only 
to  move,  and  it  is  as  the  tread  of  an  elephant  beside 
the  skip  of  a  grasshopper.  It  really  does  take  a  deal  of 
wrong  to  make  one  actually  hate  a  fat  man ;  and,  if  we 
are  not  always  so  cordial  to  a  thin  man  as  we  ought  to 
be,  Christian  charity  should  take  into  account  the  force 
of  prejudice  which  we  have  to  overcome  against  his 
thinness.  A  fat  man  is  the  nearest  to  that  most  perfect 
of  figures,  a  mathematical  sphere  ;  a  thin  man  to  that 
most  limited  of  conceivable  dimensions,  a  simple  line. 
A  fat  man  is  a  being  of  harmonious  volume,  and  holds 
relations  to  the  material  universe  in  very  direction ;  a 
thin  man  has  nothing  but  length  ;  a  thin  man,  in  fact, 
is  but  the  continuation  of  a  point.  Well,  then,  might 
FalstafF  exult  in  his  size  ;  well  might  he  mock  at  the 
prince,  and  his  other  lean  cotemporaries ;  and  accord- 
ingly, when  he  would  address  the  prince  in  terms  the 
most  degrading,  he  heaps  epithet  upon  epithet,  each 
expressive  of  the  utmost  leanness  ;  "  Away,  you  starve- 
ling," he  exclaims ;  "  you  elf-skin ;  you  dried  neat's 
tongue,  you  stock  fish  :  O,  for  breath  to  utter  what  is 
like  thee  ! " 

The  gross  idea  of  Falstaff  is  that  of  a  coward,  a  liar, 
a  glutton  and  a  buffoon.  This  idea  is  so  partial,  that 
when  taken  for  the  whole  character  it  is  untrue.  Much 
more  than  this  there  must  be,  in  one  among  the  greatest 


FALSTAFF.  O 

of  Shakspeare's  creations.  In  the  cowardice  of  Fal- 
stafF  there  is  much  inconsistency ;  and  much  of  this, 
we  may  suppose,  arises  from  the  exaggerations  in  which 
the  poet  has  knowingly  indulged  for  the  sake  of  ludi- 
crous position.  I  do  not  know  otherwise  how  to  inter- 
pret the  affair  at  Gad's  Hill.  The  prince,  whether  as 
Shakspeare  or  history  represents  him,  was  no  lover  of 
dastards  ;  yet  the  poet  allows  him  to  intrust  Falstaff 
with  a  company  ;  and  Falstaff  himself,  as  he  gives  him 
to  us  after  the  battle  of  Shrewsbury,  says,  "  I  have  led 
my  raggamuflins  where  they  are  peppered ;  there 's 
but  three  of  my  hundred  and  fifty  left  alive."  Falstaff 
willingly  goes  twice  to  the  wars  ;  and  the  cool  mockery 
of  which  he  was  capable  on  the  field,  shows  a  light 
heart,  and  not  a  timid  one.  The  gaiety,  the  ease,  the 
merriment,  the  reckless  frolic,  the  immovable  self- 
possession  which  he  exhibits,  preceding  the  campaign 
and  in  it,  evinces  any  other  temper  than  that  of  coward- 
ice. A  coward  may  have  daring  in  the  midst  of  danger, 
but  he  has  never  levity  in  it,  —  spontaneous,  unaffected 
levity.  Falstaff,  physically,  was  not  a  craven.  He 
was  assuredly  attached  to  life,  and  to  the  life  of  the 
senses.  It  was  all  he  had  ;  it  was  all  he  hoped  ;  and  it 
was  all  he  wished.  He  was  therefore  in  no  anxiety  to 
lose  it ;  and  his  philosophy  taught  him  of  nothing  which 
was  a  compensation  for  endangering  it. 


6  LECTURES   AND    ESSAYS. 

"  Hal,"  he  says,  "  if  thou  seest  me  fall  down  in 
battle,  and  bestride  me  so,  't  is  a  point  of  friendship." 

"  Nothing,"  says  the  prince,  "  but  a  colossus  can  do 
that  friendship.     Say  thy  prayers,  and  farewell." 

"  I  would  it  were  bed-time,  Hal,  and  all  well." 

"  Why,  thou  owest  God  a  death." 

"  'T  is  not  due  yet,  and  I  would  be  loath  to  pay  him 
before  his  day." 

This,  though  banter,  is  all  congruous  with  his  system. 
And,  also,  what  can  he  be  but  joking,  when  he  says  to 
the  prince  : 

"  But  tell  me,  Hal,  art  thou  not  horribly  afeard  ? 
Thou  being  heir  apparent,  could  the  world  pick  thee 
out  three  such  enemies  again,  as  that  fiend  Douglas, 
that  spirit  Percy,  and  that  devil  Glendower  ?  Art  thou 
not  horribly  afeard  ?  doth  not  thy  blood  thrill  at  it  ?  " 

No  coward  reveals  his  character  in  this  manner,  and 
surely  this  is  not  the  way  in  which  Shakspeare  would 
reveal  it.  FalstafF  gives  us  the  truth  of  his  character, 
when  he  says,  "  Indeed  I  am  not  John  of  Gaunt,  your 
grandfather ;  but  yet  no  coward,  Hal."  Falstaff  was 
an  epicure,  but  no  glutton.  He  was  not  a  great  eater, 
for  his  bill  contained  a  halfpennyworth  of  bread  to  an 
intolerable  quantity  of  sack.  And  although  Falstaff 
was  a  large  drinker,  he  was  no  inebriate.  And  here 
we  conceive  a  consummate   art  in  Shakspeare,  who 


^  FALSTAFF.  7 

sustains  FalstafF  throughout  in  our  intellectual  respect. 
He  presents  to  our  fancy  a  character  whose  life  was  in 
the  senses  ;  whose  atmosphere  was  the  tavern,  whose 
chief  good  was  conviviality,  and  yet  who  never  once 
passes  the  line  where  mind  lies  conquered  by  excess. 

If  the  name  of  buffoon  can  be  applied  to  Falstaff, 
then  it  is  a  designation  not  inconsistent  with  the  richest 
prodigality  of  talents.  Falstaff  companioned  with  the 
highest  of  the  land,  not  only  on  the  ground  of  his 
genius,  but  of  his  rank.  That  Falstaff  was  not  un- 
mindful of  his  genius,  appears  every  where  in  the  spirit 
of  a  confident  egotism,  which  never  strikes  us  as  puerile 
or  foolish,  and  he  constantly  shows  the  same  fact  in 
direct  expression.  Subscribing  a  very  characteristic 
letter  to  the  prince,  he  shows  that  he  was  equally  con- 
fident of  his  rank,  when  he  writes,  "  Jack  Falstaff,  with 
my  familiars  ;  John,  with  my  brothers  and  sisters  ;  and 
Sir  John,  with  the  rest  of  Europe."  Indeed  there  is 
in  this  signature,  consciousness  of  fame  as  well  as  pride 
of  station  ;  and  both  are  distinctive  of  the  man.  He 
was  jealous  of  his  position,  and  next  to  this,  he  was 
jealous  of  his  abilities.  While,  upon  occasions,  he 
seems  to  abase  himself,  his  self-abasement  has  always 
along  with  it  more  than  an  equivalent  in  self-elation. 
"  Men  of  all  sorts,"  he  says,  "  take  a  pride  to  gird  at 
me  ;  the  brain  of  this  foolish  compounded  clay,  man. 


8  LECTURES   AND  ESSAYS. 

is  not  able  to  vent  any  thing  that  tends  to  laughter  more 
than  /  invent,  or  is  invented  on  me :  I  am  not  only- 
witty  in  myself,  but  the  cause  of  wit  in  other  men." 
It  is  plain,  too,  that  he  did  not  esteem  himself  meanly 
beside  the  proudest  titles.  When  Prince  John  of  Lan- 
caster says  to  him,  parting  in  the  forest,  "  Fare  you 
well,  and  I  in  my  condition  shall  better  speak  of  you, 
than  you  deserve  : "  FalstafT  mutters  after  him,  "  I 
would  you  had  but  the  wit,  'twere  better  than  your 
dukedom."  As  to  lies,  they  were  in  the  way  of  his 
vocation.  The  highest  stretch  of  imagination  could  not 
even  suspect  him  of  veracity ;  and  if  he  had  any  dupes, 
they  were  strangely  in  love  with  deception.  His  lies, 
too,  were  the  lies  of  a  professed  and  known  wit ;  they 
were  designed  only  for  ludicrous  effect,  and  generally 
were  little  more  than  comic  exaggerations.  In  the 
events  at  Gad's  Hill,  and  those  that  immediately  follow 
them,  there  is  an  epitome  of  the  whole  character  of 
Falstaff;  but  there  is,  at  the  same  time,  an  evident 
design  on  the  part  of  the  poet,  to  bring  out  his  peculi- 
arities with  grotesque  extravagance  ;  and  to  produce 
the  broadest  and  the  most  comic  result.  The  entire 
scene  is  too  long  to  recite,  and  therefore  I  can  but  recall 
it  to  your  thoughts  by  a  very  abbreviated  sketch. 

Travellers  are  coming  to  London  with  money.     The 
prince,  FalstafF,  and  their  companions,  lay  a  plot  to 


FALSTAFF.  9 

rob  them.  On  the  way,  FalstafT  is  cheated  from  his 
horse,  and  then  he  is  all  but  helpless.  "  Eight  yards 
of  uneven  ground,"  he  says,  "  is  three  score  and  ten 
miles  afoot  to  me  ;  and  the  stony  hearted  villains  know 
it  well  enough."  It  being  dark  before  daybreak  in  the 
morning.  Prince  Henry  and  Poins  easily  separate  from 
the  party.  Falstaff  and  the  rest  accomplish  the  rob- 
bery, and  sit  down  to  count  the  spoils.  Prince  Henry 
and  Poins  then  suddenly  rush  upon  the  victors,  and 
secure  the  booty.  When  Falstaff  comes  afterwards 
empty-handed  to  the  inn,  his  burlesque  is  so  openly 
broad,  that  we  cannot  suppose  that  so  great  a  master  of 
art  and  nature  as  Shakspeare  ever  connected  such 
enormous,  such  palpable  blunders  with  so  keen  an 
intellect  as  Falstaff's,  except  for  the  direct  purpose  of 
broadest  comedy.  Falstaff,  accordingly,  aims  at  mak- 
ing no  ingenious  excuses.  He  sets,  at  once,  to  lie  ;  but 
upon  a  scale  so  grand,  that  while  his  hearers  shall  see 
that  they  are  lies,  they  shall  yet  be  startled  at  their 
magnitude  ;  and,  with  an  inconsistency  so  bold,  that  it 
stammers  at  no  contradiction,  blushes  at  no  detection  ; 
with  oddities  so  wild  and  full  of  humor,  that  his  impu- 
dence becomes  magnificent,  and  his  drollery  irresistible. 
This  is  the  result  which  he  proposes  to  himself,  to  cover 
the  ludicrousness  of  his  position  by  investing  it  with  a 
circle  of  the   most  enchanting   absurdity  ;   and  then, 


10  LECTURES   AND    ESSAYS. 

from  the  centre  of  that  circle,  to  flash  around  him  such 
corruscations,  such  a  splendor  of  fun,  that  men  shall 
have  no  power  to  mock  him  in  their  paroxysms  of 
laughter,  and  no  sight  to  note  his  humiliation  for  the 
tears  of  mirth  that  bedim  their  eyes ;  this,  I  say,  is  the 
result  which  he  proposes,  and  this  result  he  most  suc- 
cessfully accomplishes.  As  he  comes  into  the  tavern, 
puffing  and  panting,  how  heroically  he  puts  forth  his 
indignation,  as  he  exclaims,  against  the  prince  and  his 
fellows,  "  A  plague  of  all  cowards,  and  a  vengeance, 
too !  marry  and  amen  !  Give  me  a  cup  of  sack,  boy  ! 
A  plague  of  all  cowards !  Give  me  a  cup  of  sack, 
rogue  !  Is  there  no  virtue  extant  ?  You  rogue,  there 's 
lime  in  this  sack,  too.  There 's  nothing  but  roguery  to 
be  found  in  villainous  man  ;  yet  is  a  coward  worse  than 
a  cup  of  sack  with  lime  in  it  —  a  villainous  coward. 
Go  thy  way,  old  Jack,  die  when  thou  wilt,  if  manhood, 
good  manhood  be  not  forgotten  on  the  face  of  the 
earth,  then  am  I  a  shotten  herring.  There  live  but 
three  good  men  unhanged  in  England,  and  one  of  them 
is  fat,  and  grows  old.  God  help,  the  while,  a  bad 
world,  I  say.  I  wish  I  were  a  weaver,  and  could  sing 
psalms,  or  any  thing  ;  a  plague  of  all  cowards,  I  say 
still."  As  he  warms  to  his  work,  the  banter  becomes 
richer.  "  I  am  a  rogue,"  he  says,  "  if  I  was  not  at 
half  a  sword  with  a  dozen  of  them  two  hours  together. 


FALSTAFF.  11 

I  have  'scaped  by  a  miracle :  I  am  eight  times  thrust 
through  the  doublet ;  four  through  the  hose  ;  my  buck- 
ler cut  through  and  through ;  my  sword  hacked  like  a 
handsaw,  ecce  signum.  I  never  dealt  better  since  I  was 
a  man  ;  all  would  not  do.  A  plague  of  all  cowards  ! 
let  them  speak !  if  they,  if  they  speak  more  or  less  than 
truth,  they  are  villains,  and  the  sons  of  darkness." 
Absurdity  now  deepens  upon  absurdity.  Four  come 
on  ;  then  sixteen  ;  then  all ! 

Prince  Henry.     "  What,  you  fought  with  all ! " 

Falstaff.  "  All  ?  I  know  not  what  you  call  all ! 
But  if  I  fought  not  with  fifty  of  them,  then  am  I  a 
bunch  of  radish :  if  there  were  not  two  or  three  and 
fifty  upon  poor  old  Jack,  then  am  I  no  two  legged 
creature." 

PoiNs.  "  Pray  God,  you  have  not  murdered  some 
of  them ! " 

F.  "  Nay,  that 's  past  praying  for !  for  I  have  pep- 
pered two  of  them :  two,  I  am  sure,  I  have  paid  :  two 
rogues  in  buckram  suits :  I  tell  thee  what,  Hal,  if  I 
tell  thee  a  lie,  spit  in  my  face,  call  me  horse  !  Thou 
knowest  my  old  ward.  Here  I  lay,  and  thus  I  bore  my 
point.     Four  rogues  in  buckram  let  drive  at  me." 

P.  H.  "  What !  four  ?  thou  saidst  two,  even  now." 

F.  "  Four,  Hal,  I  told  thee,  four." 

PoiNS.  "  Ay,  he  said  four." 


12  LECTURES   AND    ESSAYS. 

F.  "  These  four  came  all  afront,  and  mainly  thrust 
at  me.  I  made  no  more  ado,  but  took  all  their  seven 
points  on  my  target  thus." 

P.  H,  "  Why  there  were  but  four  even  now." 

F.  "  In  buckram." 

PoiNS.  "  Ay,  four  in  buckram  suits." 

F.  "  Seven,  by  these  hilts,  or  I  am  a  villain  else." 

P.  H.  "  Let  him  alone,  we  shall  have  more  anon." 

F.  "  Dost  thou  hear  me,  Hal  ?  " 

P.  H.  "  Ay,  and  mark  thee  too.  Jack." 

F.  "  Do  so,  for  it  is  worth  listening  to.  These  nine 
men  in  buckram  that  I  told  thee  of — " 

P.  H.  "  Two  more  already  !  " 

F.  "  Began  to  give  ground  :  but  I  followed  me  close, 
came  in  foot  and  hand,  and  with  a  thought  seven  of  the 
eleven  I  paid." 

P.  H.  "  O,  monstrous,  eleven  buckram  men  grown 
out  of  two  ! " 

We  have  then  his  account  of  the  three  men  in  Ken- 
dal green,  that  let  drive  at  his  back,  when  it  was  so 
dark,  that  he  could  not  see  his  hand. 

P.  H.  "  Why  how  could'st  thou  know  these  three 
men  in  Kendal  green,  when  it  was  so  dark  that  thou 
could'st  not  see  thy  hand  ?  Come,  tell  us  your  reason. 
What  say'st  thou  to  this  ?  " 

PoiNS.   "  Come,  your  reason,  Jack,  your  reason." 


FALSTAFF.  13 

F.  "  What !  upon  compulsion  ?  No :  were  I  at  the 
strappado,  or  all  the  racks  in  the  world,  I  would  not  tell 
you  on  compulsion  !  Give  you  a  reason  on  compulsion  ! 
If  reasons  were  as  plenty  as  blackberries,  I  would  give 
no  man  a  reason  on  compulsion." 

The  discovery  is  now  opened.  "  Mark  now,"  says 
the  prince,  "  how  plain  a  tale  shall  put  you  down,"  and 
relates  the  incidents  as  they  occurred.  But  Falstaff, 
nothing  confused,  turns  the  joke  completely  against 
them,  and  avers  that  he  knew  them  all  the  time. 
"  Why,  hear  ye,  my  masters,"  he  exclaims ;  "  was  it 
for  me  to  kill  the  heir  apparent  ?  Should  I  turn  upon 
the  true  prince  ?  Why  thou  knowest  I  am  as  valiant 
as  Hercules ;  but  beware  instinct :  the  lion  will  not 
touch  the  true  prince.  Instinct  is  a  great  matter.  I  was 
a  coward  upon  instinct.  I  shall  think  the  better  of  my- 
self and  thee  during  my  life  ;  I,  for  a  valiant  lion,  and 
thou,  for  a  true  prince."  I  am  not  aware  that  the  point 
of  this  excuse  has  been  noticed  by  the  critics,  and  yet 
I  think  it  is  especially  worthy  of  remark.  "  The  lion," 
he  says,  "  will  not  touch  the  true  prince  ;  instinct  is  a 
great  matter;  I  was  a  coward  upon  instinct."  Why 
does  Falstaff  allude  thus  to  a  popular  superstition,  and 
why  add  an  emphatic  epithet  to  the  title  of  his  royal 
companion  ?  Why  say,  the  true  prince  >  The  reason 
is  found  in  the  history  and  feelings  of  the  day.     Henry 


14  LECTURES   AND   ESSAYS. 

the  Fourth,  father  of  the  prince,  dethroned  Richard  the 
Second,  and  many  thought,  foully  caused  his  death  ; 
so  that  millions  regarded  him,  not  only  as  a  usurper, 
but  a  murderer.  His  claim  was  unsound  according  to 
blood ;  he  had  no  hold  upon  the  national  affection ;  and 
at  this  very  time  the  real  heir  to  the  throne,  upon  here- 
ditary grounds,  was  a  closely  guarded  prisoner.  This 
allusion,  therefore,  of  Falstaff,  implies  not  only  the 
cunning  pungency  of  a  brilliant  wit,  but  the  adroit  flat- 
tery of  a  polished  courtier. 

The  character  of  Falstaff,  as  I  apprehend,  consists 
in  the  union  of  fine  mental  faculties  with  low  appetites. 
This  it  will  be  my  endeavor  to  elucidate. 

If  we  were  to  take  two  separate  characters  from 
Shakspeare,  the  elements  of  which  combined,  and  duly 
intermingled,  would  embody  the  totality  of  life,  they 
would  be,  I  think,  the  character  of  Hamlet  and  the 
character  of  Falstaff.  Each  of  these  characters  stands, 
as  I  view  them,  on  the  same  level  of  creative  genius. 
We  have  in  these,  intensely  contrasted,  the  two  leading 
tendencies  of  life,  the  ideal,  and  the  sensual.  It  is  not 
often  that  Shakspeare  dissociates  these  tendencies ;  and 
never  so  broadly  and  distinctly  as  in  this  instance. 
Hamlet  has  nothing  of  sensualism,  Falstaff  has  nothing 
of  idealism.  In  the  creation  of  these  two  great  imper- 
sonations, these  two  great  inhabitants  of  the  imagina- 


FALSTAFF.  15 

tion-world,  the  attention  of  the  poet  seems  to  have  been 
turned  with  an  undivided  force  to  opposite  directions  of 
our  nature.  In  Hamlet,  his  thoughts  communed  en- 
tirely with  the  spiritual,  the  mysterious,  the  future,  the 
infinite,  the  possible.  In  FalstafF,  he  dwelt  exclusively 
in  the  material,  the  visible,  the  present,  the  limited, 
and  the  actual.  _We  have,  accordingly,  in  Hamlet, 
meditative  dreaminess  ;  spectral  visitations ;  strugglings 
with  unanswerable  problems ;  questionings  of  an  im- 
penetrable silence ;  a  seeking,  with  passion  and  with 
tears,  for  hidden  .things  that  will  not  reveal  themselves  ; 
a  faith  resting  firmly  on  eternal  principles,  and  yet  a 
scepticism  perplexed  amidst  inscrutable  phenomena ; 
a  will  moved  by  immediate  impulse,  yet  losing  resolu- 
tion in  the  conflict  of  imaginings,  and  the  vagueness  of 
speculation ;  a  strength  of  conception,  that  makes  the 
future  as  the  now,  and  the  possible  as  the  real,  and  yet 
a  feebleness  of  purpose  that  hesitates  before  a  conjec- 
ture ;  a  grief  that  wanders  uncomforted  among  the 
mysteries  of  existence  ;  a  melancholy  that  pines  under 
the  shadows  of  thought ;  a  tragedy  that  has  its  despair, 
and  its  catastrophe,  not  in  the  madness  or  torture  of  the 
passions,  but  in  the  sickness  of  aflfection,  and  in  the 
bewilderings  of  the  moral  reason.  In  Falstafi*,  there  is 
not  only  an  absence  of  all  this,  but  its  contrary.  In 
FalstafF,  we  have  the  entireness  of  being  concentrated 


16  LECTURES   AND   ESSAYS. 

in  the  palpable.  The  present,  and  the  personal,  and 
the  physical,  make  to  him  the  sum  of  existence.  What 
is,  what  is  mine.,  what  can  be  touched,  and  tasted,  and 
felt,  and  heard,  and  seen,  —  this  on  the  Falstaff  side  of 
life  constitutes  the  universe.  Here  are  no  dreams  or 
doubts  ;  here  are  no  mysteries  or  spectres ;  here  are 
no  hesitances  or  perplexities  ;  here  are  no  problems  or 
conjectures ;  here  is  no  sadness  from  fancy,  and  no 
malady  from  visions ;  here  is  no  .questioning  of  the 
future,  and  no  musing  on  the  grave.  And  yet,  underly- 
ing the  whole,  there  is  a  basis  of  melancholy,  which  any 
one  who  will  go  deep  enough  below  the  surface  cannot 
fail  to  reach.  To  reach  this,  and  show  it,  has  been  one 
purpose  of  the  present  Essay. 

If  Falstaff  had  not  such  noble  mental  faculties,  his 
character  would  be  wholly  without  dramatic  dignity, 
and  without  moral  import.  But  this  is  not  the  case. 
The  genius  of  Falstaff,  in  its  kind,  is  of  pre-eminent 
superiority.  Perhaps  there  is  not  another  among 
Shakspeare's  marvellous  creations,  which  more  dis- 
plays the  amazing  resources  of  the  author.  Do  not 
measure  mental  power  by  the  excellence  of  its  direc- 
tion, but  by  the  amount  of  its  capacity,  and  that  of 
Falstaff  will  be  placed  in  the  highest  order.  His  intel- 
lect is  of  surprising  force.  It  has  clearness,  precision, 
rapidity,  strength,  and   subtlety.      Falstaff  towers  in 


FALSTAFF.  17 

mental  superiority  abc^e  all  by  whom  he  is  surrounded. 
He  has  the  sustained  ease  of  conscious  nobility  ;  and 
this,  not  alone,  with   such  creatures  as  Shallow  and 
Slender,   but  with  the   proud  Prince   Henry  and   the 
austere  chief  justice.     He  contrives,  directly  or  indi- 
rectly, to  make  all  subordinate  that  are  near  him.    The 
inferior  characters   are  directly   his  instruments,  and 
indirectly   Falstaff  contrives   to   make   the    prince   as 
much  an  appendage  to   him  as  he  is  to   the   prince. 
"  Hal,  I  pray  thee,  trouble  me  no  more  with  vanity.     I 
would  to  God  thou  and  I  knew  where  a  commodity  of 
good  names  were  to  be  bought.     Thou  hast  done  much 
harm  upon  me,  Hal ;  God  forgive  thee  for  it !  thou  art 
able  to  corrupt  a  saint.     Before  I  knew  thee,  Hal,  I 
knew  nothing ;  and  now,  am  I,  if  a  man  should  speak 
truth,  as  little  better  than  one  of  the  wicked."     How 
full  of  meaning,  as  well  as  wit,  is  that  scene  where  the 
prince,  being  soon  to  appear  before  his  stern  father, 
Falstaff  urges  him  to  prepare  an  answer,  and  in  which 
Falstaff  and  the  prince  alternately  counterfeit  the  king. 
Falstaff,  as  the  king,  begins  by  subjecting  Henry  to  a 
mock  examination,  which  he  conducts  with  admirable 
gravity.     "  Why,  being  son  to  me,  art  thou  so  pointed 
at  ?     Shall  the  sun  of  heaven  prove  a  mitcher,  and  eat 
blackberries  ?     A  question  not  to  be  asked  !     Shall  the 
son  of  England  prove  a  thief,  and  take  purses  ?     A 

VOL.    I.  2 


18  LECTURES   AND   ESSAYS. 

question  to  be  asked.  There  is  a  thing,  Harry,  which 
thou  hast  often  heard  of,  and  it  is  known  to  many  in 
the  land,  by  the  name  of  pitch  :  this  pitch,  as  ancient 
writers  do  report,  doth  defile.  So  doth  the  company 
thou  keepest:  for,  Harry,  now,  I  do  not  speak  to  thee 
in  drink,  but  in  tears  ;  not  in  pleasure,  but  in  passion  ; 
not  in  words  only,  but  in  woes  also  ;  and  yet,  there  is  a 
man  whom  I  have  often  noted  in  thy  company,  but  I 
know  not  his  name." 

P.  H.     "  What  manner  of  man,  an'  it  like   your 
majesty  ?  " 

F.  "  A  good,  portly  man,  i'  faith,  and  corpulent ;  of 
a  cheerful  look,  a  pleasing  eye,  and  a  most  noble  car- 
riage ;  and,  as  I  think,  his  age  some  fifty,  or,  by  'r 
lady,  approaching  to  threescore  ;  and,  now,  I  re- 
member me,  his  name  is  Falstaif.  If  that  man  should 
be  lewdly  given,  he  deceiveth  me ;  for,  Harry,  I  see 
virtue  in  his  very  looks.  If,  then,  the  tree  may  be 
known  by  the  fruit,  as  the  fruit  by  the  tree,  then 
peremptorily,  I  speak  it,  there  is  virtue  in  that  Falstaff. 
Him  keep  ;  the  rest  banish." 

P.  H.  *'  Dost  thou  speak  like  a  king  ?  You  stand 
for  me,  and  I  '11  play  my  father." 

F.  *'  Depose  me  !  If  thou  doest  it  half  so  gravely, 
so  majestically,  hang  me  up  by  the  heels  for  a  rabbit- 
sucker  or  a  poulterer's  hare." 


FALSTAFF.  19 

Prince  Henry,  taking  then  the  place  of  his  father, 
treats  the  character  of  FalstafF  with  an  extreme  degree 
of  harshness.  Falstaff,  as  the  prince,  inquires  with 
exemplary  simplicity,  "  Whom  means  your  grace  ?  " 

P.  H.  "  That  villanous,  abominable  misleader  of 
youth,  Falstaff;  that  old  white-bearded  Satan." 

Falstaff,  still,  as  prince,  makes  a  masterly  defence, 
in  which  the  wit  is  tinged  with  a  shade  of  pathos. 
"  My  lord,  the  man  I  know :  but,  to  say  that  I  know 
more  harm  in  him  than  in  myself  were  to  say  more 
than  I  know.  That  he  is  old,  the  more  the  pity,  his 
white  hairs  witness  it.  If  sack  and  sugar  be  a  fault, 
God  help  the  wicked.  If  to  be  old  and  merry  be  a  sin, 
many  an  old  host  that  I  know,  is  damned.  If  to  be 
fat  be  to  be  hated,  then  Pharaoh's  lean  kine  are  to  be 
loved.  No,  my  good  lord,  banish  Bardolf;  banish 
Peto,  banish  Poins ;  but,  for  sweet  Jack  Falstaf,  true 
Jack  Falstaff,  valiant  Jack  Falstaff,  and,  therefore,  more 
valiant  as  he  is  old.  Jack  Falstaff — banish  not  him,  thy 
Harry's  company!  banish  plump  Jack  Falstaff,  and 
banish  all  the  world." 

And  what  is  superior  to  his  interview  with  the  chief 
justice,  for  humor  and  ability.  The  banter  is  so 
perfect,  that  even  the  solemn  magistrate  cannot  resent 
it.  There  is  something  in  this  interview  which  renders 
audacity  sublime,  a  daring  which  rises  to  the  topmost 


20  .  LECTURES   AND    ESSAYS. 

majesty  of  impudence.  The  highest  criminal  judge  in 
England  opens  by  charging  the  sybarite  with  an 
offence  that  threatened  his  life  ;  the  sybarite  closes  it 
by  asking  the  justice  for  the  loan  of  money.  Does 
civilized  society  know  of  courage  which  can  go  above 
this  ?  The  easy  impertinence  of  Falstaff 's  first 
address  is  inimitable.  "  Give  your  lordship,  good  time 
of  day.  I  am  glad  to  see  your  lordship  abroad;  I 
heard  that  your  lordship  was  sick ;  I  hope  that  your 
lordship  goes  abroad  by  advice.  Your  lordship,  though 
not  clean  "past  your  youth,  hath  some  smack  of  age  in 
you,  some  relish  of  the  saltness  of  time ;  and  I  most 
humbly  beseech  your  lordship  to  have  a  reverend  care 
of  your  health.  For  the  box  on  the  ear  that  the  prince 
gave  you,  he  gave  it  like  a  rude  prince,  and  you  took 
it  like  a  sensible  lord.  —  I  have  checked  him  for  it." 
This  is  being  tolerably  free  with  one  of  the  gravest 
magistrates  of  whom  history  has  record  ;  a  magistrate 
so  unflinching  in  his  office,  that  he  sent  the  heir  of 
England  to  prison  for  disrespect  hardly  so  great. 
With  the  prince  himself,  Falstaff  deals  as  freely,  and 
gets  off  as  well.  One  of  Falstaff's  lowest  associates 
speaks  to  him  thus : 

"  Sirrah,  what  humor  is  the  prince  of?  " 
"A  good  shallow,  young  fellow.     He  would  have 
made  a  good  pantler;    he  would  have  clipped  bread 
well." 


FALSTAFF.  21 

"  They  say,  Poins  has  a  good  wit." 

"  He  !  a  good  wit !  hang  him,  baboon :  he  has  wit 
as  thick  as  Tewksbury  mustard ;  there  is  no  more 
conceit  in  him  than  in  a  mallet." 

"  Why  does  the  prince  love  him  so,  then  }  " 

"  Because  their  legs  are  of  a  bigness,  and  he  plays 
at  quoits  well ;  and  eats  conger  and  fennell ;  and 
drinks  off  candles-ends  for  flap-dragons ;  and  rides  the 
wild  mare  with  the  boys ;  *  *  *  and  swears  with  a 
good  grace ;  and  wears  his  boot  very  smooth  like  the 
sign  of  the  leg ;  and  breeds  no  bate  with  telling  of 
discreet  stories;  and  such  other  gambol  faculties  he 
hath,  that  show  a  weak  mind  and  an  able  body,  for  the 
which  the  prince  admits  him  ;  for  the  prince  himself  is 
such  another ;  the  weight  of  a  hair  will  turn  the  scale 
between  their  avoirdupois." 

The  prince  having  listened  to  all  this,  suddenly 
shows  himself,  and  reproaches  his  describer.  Falstaff, 
nothing  in  the  least  abashed,  coolly  inquires,  "  Didst 
thou  hear  me  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  replies  the  prince ;  "  and  you  knew  me,  as 
you  did,  when  you  ran  away  by  Gad's  Hill :  you  knew 
I  was  at  your  back,  and  spoke  it  on  purpose  to  try  my 
patience." 

Falstaff.  "  No,  no,  not  so :  I  did  not  think  thou 
wast  within  hearing." 


22  LECTURES   AND  ESSAYS. 

Prince  Henry.  "  I  shall  drive  you  to  confess  the 
wilful  abuse ;  and  then,  I  know  how  to  handle  you." 

F.  *'  No  abuse,  Hal !  on  my  honor,  no  abuse." 

P.  H.  "  Not  ?  To  dispraise  me,  and  call  me  — 
pantler,  and  bread -chipper,  and,  I  know  not  what .?  " 

F.  "  No  abuse,  Hal." 

"  No  abuse  }  "  echoes  Poins. 

F.  "  No  abuse,  Ned !  in  the  world ;  honest  Ned, 
none  !  I  dispraised  him  before  the  wicked,  that  the 
wicked  might  not  fall  in  love  with  him  ;  in  which  doing, 
I  have  done  the  part  of  a  careful  friend  and  a  true  sub- 
ject, and  thy  father  is  to  give  me  thanks  for  it.  No 
abuse,  Hal ;    none,  Ned,  none  ;   no,  boys,  none." 

I  introduce  these  passages,  not  simply  for  their 
drollery,  which  is  exquisite,  but  as  illustrative  of  that 
command  which  FalstafT  always  maintains  over  his 
faculties;  of  that  intellectual  coolness  which  nothing 
can  disturb,  and  that  intellectual  vigor  which  nothing 
can  subdue. 

The  imagination  of  Falstaff  is  enormous.  It  seems 
to  be  one  into  which  Shakspeare  poured  the  unlimited 
treasures  of  his  own.  It  is  as  profuse  in  the  ludicrous, 
as  the  Midsummer  Night's  Dream  is  in  the  beautiful. 
It  seems  as  if  Shakspeare,  seeking  a  wild  relaxation, 
formed  to  himself  a  being,  in  which,  laying  aside  all 
kingly  robes,  he  might  yet  sport  in  his  kingly  genius. 


FALSTAFF.  23 

The  imagination  of  Falstaff  is  prodigal  as  nature.  It 
seems  not  capable  of  exhaustion.  Every  turn  of  it  has 
fresh  originality  of  thought  and  phrase.  It  displays 
such  a  faculty  of  invention,  that  each  novelty  only 
leads  us  to  expect  another  more  surprising.  Ideas,  to 
ordinary  apprehension,  the  most  dissimilar,  Falstaff 
connects  with  as  much  facility,  as  if  they  were  formed 
only  to  exist  together  ;  and  illustrations  the  most  strange, 
when  fused  in  the  alembic  of  his  brain,  and  coined  with 
the  impression  of  his  fancy,  instantly  take  from  it  solid- 
ity, brilliancy,  aptitude,  and  worth. 

Falstaff  has  both  wit  and  humor  ;  but  more  of 
art,  I  think,  than  humor.  Between  wit  and  humor 
there  is  an  evident  distinction,  but  to  subject  the  dis- 
tinction to  minute  criticism,  would  require  more  time 
than  we  can  spare ;  and,  after  all,  it  is  more  easy  to 
feel  than  to  explain  it.  If  I  should  say,  Alexander 
Pope  has  great  wit,  Charles  Dickens  has  great  humor, 
all  would  give  me  their  assent ;  but  if,  reversing  the 
positions,  I  should  say,  Charles  Dickens  has  great  wit, 
Alexander  Pope  great  humor,  the  assertion  would  be 
met  by  an  instinctive  denial.  Wit  implies  thought; 
humor,  sensibility.  Wit  deals  with  ideas  ;  humor,  with 
actions  and  with  manners.  Wit  may  be  a  thing  of  pure 
imagination ;  humor  involves  sentiment  and  character. 
Wit  is  an  essence  ;  humor,  an  incarnation.     Wit  and 


24  LECTURES   AND   ESSAYS. 

humor,  however,  have  some  elements  iri  common. 
Both  develop  unexpected  analogies ;  both  include  the 
principles  of  contrast  and  assimilation  ;  both  detect  in- 
ward resemblances  amidst  external  differences,  and  the 
result  of  both  is  pleasurable  surprise  ;  the  surprise  from 
wit  excites  admiration ;  the  surprise  from  humor  stimu- 
lates merriment,  and  produces  laughter.  Humor  is  a 
genial  quality.  Laughter  is,  indeed,  akin  to  weeping ; 
and  true  humor  is  as  closely  allied  to  pity  as  it  is  ab- 
horrent of  derision.  Gaiety  is  the  play  of  brotherhood. 
We  may  be  merry  with  each  other,  like  children  with 
their  playmates ;  no  friendships  will  thus  be  broken, 
and  we  shall  be  drawn  together  only  the  more  strongly 
in  our  humanity  by  the  recollection  of  our  sports.  In- 
deed, a  species  of  humor  adheres  even  to  our  loftiest 
conceptions ;  for  the  ideals  of  truth  and  goodness  so 
mock  the  actual  doings  of  mankind,  that,  if  it  were  not 
for  the  sorrow  and  humility,  as  well  as  the  incongruity, 
which  the  contrast  suggests,  our  emotion  would  be  a 
feeling  of  the  ludicrous.  Life  is  therefore  full  of  irony  ! 
In  the  wit  of  Falstaff  there  is  a  ceaseless  spirit  of 
mockery  ;  but  this  mockery  is  always  irresistibly  comic. 
If  humor  be  a  quality  which  dwells  in  the  same  char- 
acter with  pathos,  and  which  is  always  mingled  with 
sensibility  ;  if  it  is  the  offspring  of  a  sympathizing 
fancy,  which  bathes  the  face  in  tears  as  often  as  it 


FALSTAFF.  25 

covers  it  with  smiles  ;  we  cannot  attribute  it  to  Falstaff. 
But  if  we  mean  by  the  humorous,  only  what  we  mean 
by  the  comic  ;  if  indeed  we  speak  of  humor  simply,  in 
reference  to  the  ludicrous  ;  then  we  must  allow  to  Fal- 
staff a  fund  of  it  with  which  nothing  in  comedy  can  be 
compared.  The  sense  of  the  ludicrous  is  an  undeviat- 
ing  condition  of  his  intellectual  life.  He  perceives  the 
ludicrous  in  every  object,  in  every  person,  in  every 
form  of  emotion  and  of  thought,  in  every  sentiment,  in 
every  possibility  of  human  existence.  He  subjects  all 
to  it ;  nothing  escapes  him  ;  and,  as  his  capacity  is  vig- 
orous, as  his  perception  is  acute,  his  mockery  is  as 
formidable  as  it  is  comprehensive.  No  occasion  arises 
that  he  cannot  turn  to  this  purpose  ;  no  mode  by  which  it 
can  be  attained  is  strange  to  him  ;  his  talents  are  most 
effective  instruments,  and  his  victims  are  ever  present. 
Is  the  ludicrous  to  be  excited  by  the  oddest  reversals  of 
positions ;  by  the  strangest  perversion  of  qualities ;  by 
the  most  foreign  association  of  attributes ;  by  all  sorts  of 
grotesque  additions,  assimilations,  and  analogies  ?  Fal- 
staff exhibits  unfailing  resources  for  each  and  all  of 
these  modes  of  the  comic.  His  wit  is  rich  as  his  imagi- 
nation ;  as  prolific  as  it  is  felicitous.  It  is  pungent, 
copious,  brilliant  in  expression,  and  decisive  in  effect. 
It  never  falls  short  of  its  aim,  and  it  never  misses  it. 
And  this  rare  wit  is  wholly  devoted  to  the  ludicrous, 


26  LECTUEES    AND  ESSAYS. 

unsoftened  by  any  moral  feeling,  and  uncurbed  by  any 
moral  restraint. 

By  how  many  modes  does  he  extract  nourishment 
for  laughter  from  those  around  him  ;  what  treasures  of 
ludicrous  imaginings  he  lavishes  upon  Bardolf  and  his 
peculiarities.  Dame  Quickly  asks  him  for  money  ;  he 
refers  her  to  Bardolf  for  payment. 

"  He,"  FalstafT  asserts,  "  had  his  part  of  it." 

"  Alas ! "  Dame  Quickly  replies,  "  he  is  poor,  he 
hath  nothing." 

F.  "  How  .?  Poor !  Look  upon  his  face  !  What  call 
you  rich  ?  Let  them  coin  his  nose,  let  them  coin  his 
cheeks," 

Falstaff  turned  this  face  to  much  account.  "  I  make 
as  good  use  of  it  as  a  man  doth  of  a  death's  head,  or  a 
memento  mori.  I  never  see  thy  face,  but  I  think  upon 
hell's  fire,  and  Dives  that  lived  in  purple  ;  for  there  he 
is  in  his  robes  burning.  If  thou  wert  any  way  given  to 
virtue,  I  would  swear  by  thy  face  ;  my  oath  would  be 
by  this  fire.  But  thou  art  altogether  given  over,  and 
wert  indeed,  but  for  the  light  in  Jhy  face,  the  son  of 
utter  darkness.  When  thou  rannest  up  Gad's  Hill  in 
the  night  to  catch  my  horse,  if  I  did  not  think  thou 
hadst  been  an  ignis  fatuus  or  a  tall  wild  fire,  there's  no 
purchase  in  money.  O,  thou  art  a  perpetual  triumph, 
an  everlasting  bona-fide  light.     Thou  hast  saved  me  a 


FALSTAFF.  87 

thousand  marks  in  links  and  torches,  walking  with  thee 
in  the  night,  betwixt  tavern  and  tavern,  but  the  sack 
thou  hast  drunk  me  would  have  bought  me  lights  as 
good,  cheap  at  the  dearest  chandler's  in  Europe.  I 
have  maintained  that  salamander  of  yours  with  fire, 
any  time,  these  two  and  thirty  years.  Heaven  reward 
me  for  it." 

Contempt  being  a  prevailing  quality  in  the  character 
of  FalstafF,  the  cynical  constantly  enters  into  the  comi- 
cal. "  There 's  but  a  shirt  and  a  half  in  all  my  com- 
pany ;  and  the  half  shirt  is  two  napkins  tacked  together 
like  a  herald's  coat  without  sleeves  ;  and  the  shirt,  to 
say  the  truth,  stolen  from  my  host  at  St.  Albans,  or  the 
red-nosed  inn-keeper  at  Daintry.  But  that's  all  one  ; 
they  '11  find  linen  enough  on  every  hedge."  The  same 
spirit  acts  in  his  system  of  enlistment.  He  had  taken 
bribes  from  such  of  the  able-bodied  as  could  give  them, 
and  thus  he  holds  forth  to  Justice  Shallow,  on  the  poor 
wretches  whom  he  substitutes  :  "  Will  you  tell  me, 
Master  Shallow,  how  to  choose  a  man  ?  Care  I  for  the 
thews,  the  stature,  the  bulk,  and  big  assemblance  of  a 
man  .?  Give  the  spirit.  Master  Shallow.  Here's  Wart ; 
you  see  what  a  ragged  appearance  it  is.  He  shall 
charge  and  discharge  you  with  the  motion  of  a  pew- 
terer's  hammer ;  come  off*  and  on  swifter  than  he  that 
gibbets  on  the  brewer's  bucket.     And  this  same  half- 


88  LECTURES   AND   ESSAYS. 

faced  fellow,  Shadow  ;  give  me  this  man  ;  he  presents 
no  mark  to  an  enemy  ;  the  foeman  may  with  as  great 
aim  level  at  the  edge  of  a  penknife.  O  give  me  the 
spare  men,  and  spare  me  the  great  ones."  When  the 
prince  finds  fault  with  the  unhappy  ragamuffins  whom 
he  has  collected  for  soldiers,  his  reply  is  not  ludicrous, 
but  ironical.  "  Tut,  tut !  "  he  says,  "  good  enough  to 
toss  ;  food  for  powder,  food  for  powder ;  they  '11  fill  a  pit 
as  well  as  better ;  tush  man,  mortal  men,  mortal  men !  " 
Much  import  is  there  in  this  apparent  levity ;  in  this 
there  is  laid  bare  the  secret  of  many  wars,  and  in  this 
there  are  revealed  the  thoughts  of  many  conquerors. 

FalstafF  delights  as  much  to  associate  the  ludicrous 
with  himself  as  with  others.  It  is  hard  to  say  which  is 
most  laughable,  his  despondency  or  his  triumph.  Pen- 
siveness  of  such  amazing  girth  must  be  vastly  moving. 
"  Bardolf,  am  I  not  fallen  away  ?  Do  I  not  bate  ?  Do 
I  not  dwindle  >  Why,  my  skin  hangs  about  me  like 
an  old  lady's  loose  gown  ;  why,  I  am  withered  like  an 
old  apple-john.  Well,  I  '11  repent,  and  that  suddenly, 
while  I  am  in  some  liking  ;  I  shall  be  out  of  heart  pres- 
ently, and  then  I  shall  have  no  strength  to  repent. 
Company,  villanous  company,  hath  been  the  ruin 
o'  me." 

But,  anon,  we  hear  the  high  tones  of  exultation, 
thus,  to  Prince  John  of  Lancaster  :  "  Do  you  think  me 


FALSTAFF.  S9 

a  swallow,  an  arrow,  a  bullet  ?  Have  I,  in  my  poor  old 
motion,  the  expedition  of  a  thought  ?  I  have  speeded 
hitherto  with  the  very  extremest  inch  of  possibility ;  I 
have  foundered  nine  score  and  odd  posts  ;  and  here, 
travel-tainted  as  1  am,  I  have,  in  my  pure  and  immacu- 
late valor,  taken  Sir  John  Colville  of  the  Dale,  a  most 
furious  knight  and  valorous  enemy.  But  what  of  that  ? 
He  saw  me,  and  yielded.  I  may  justly  say  with  the 
hook-nosed  fellow  of  Rome,  '  I  came,  I  saw,  I  over- 
came.' "  While  Falstaff  delights  in  this  manner  to 
trifle  with  himself,  yet  he  never  assumes  an  attitude  of 
humiliation  ;  he  takes  care  scrupulously  to  guard  his 
pride ;  he  is  willing  to  be  the  occasion  of  laughter,  but 
not  the  object  of  it.  In  "  The  Merry  Wives  of  Wind- 
sor," therefore,  the  identity  of  the  character  is  lost ; 
and  I  have,  thence,  thought  it  needless  to  include  that 
aspect  of  it  in  the  present  review. 

Let  us  consider  now  the  moral  structure  of  this  char- 
acter, in  connection  with  its  moral  results. 

Falstaff  is  an  Epicurean,  after  the  lowest  interpreta- 
tion of  Epicurus  ;  and  such  is  the  least  evil  form  of 
character,  which  springs  from  mere  intellect  combined 
with  the  senses.  Where  moral  principles  and  sympa- 
thy arc  inactive,  it  is  well  that  irritable  and  ambitious 
passions  should  be  so  likewise,  or  a  great  intellect  would 
become  a  great  scourge.    Indolence,  therefore,  and  self- 


30  LECTURES   AND   ESSAYS. 

indulgence,  set  limits  to  energies  which  would  scarcely 
be  used  aright,  and  the  love  of  ease  becomes  a  safe- 
guard against  talents  which  the  love  of  power  would 
make  a  curse.  FalstafF  is  of  those  who  value  each 
moment  by  what  it  confers  of  palpable  enjoyment ;  of 
those  who  say.  Let  us  eat  and  drink,  for  to-morrow  we 
die  ;  and  he  acted  out  his  philosophy  consistently  and 
completely.  He  is  true  to  his  creed,  and  his  practice 
fulfills  it  to  the  letter.  He  is  honest  and  open,  too,  in 
its  profession.  Beyond  the  boundary  of  the  actual, 
Fal staff  discerns  no  reality.  Out  from  the  region  of  the 
senses  he  appreciates  no  means  of  happiness.  Within 
this  boundary  all  being  exists  for  him ;  beyond  it  are 
only  emptiness  and  death.  A  spiritual  order  of  things 
has  no  hold  on  his  convictions ;  and  the  future,  which 
is  to  survive  his  animal  economy,  has  no  influence  on 
his  feelings.  He  has  therefore  no  sentiment.  He  laughs 
at  it.  He  derides  it  Chivalry  is  to  him  mere  vanity ; 
glory  a  worthless  phantom.  Daring,  in  his  view,  is  hot- 
brained  folly.  Danger  is  always  to  be  avoided,  and 
never  to  be  sought.  After  feigning  death  at  Shrews- 
bury, he  thus  soliloquizes :  "  Counterfeit }  I  lie.  I  am 
no  counterfeit ;  for  he  is  but  the  counterfeit  of  a  man, 
who  has  not  the  life  of  a  man  ;  but  to  counterfeit  dying 
when  a  man  thereby  liveth,  is  to  be  no  counterfeit,  but 
the  true  and  perfect  image,  of  life  indeed.     The  better 


FALSTAFF.  31 

part  of  valor  is,  discretion  ;  in  the  which  better  part  I 
have  saved  my  life."  His  reflections  upon  "honor" 
are  conceived  in  the  same  absorbing  materialism  :  "  Can 
honor  set  a  leg  ?  No.  Honor  hath  no  skill  in  surgery, 
then.  What  is  honor  ?  A  word.  What  is  in  that 
word  honor  ?  Air ;  a  trim  reckoning.  Who  hath  it  ? 
He  that  died  o'  Wednesday.  Doth  he '  feel  it  ?  No. 
Doth  he  hear  it  ?  No.  Is  it  insensible,  then  ?  Yea, 
to  the  dead.  But  will  it  not  live  with  the  living  ?  No. 
Why?  Detraction  will  not  suffer  it.  Therefore,  I'll 
none  of  it." 

Falstaff  has  little  sympathy.  He  loves  none,  and  he 
cares  for  few.  He  is  luxuriously  selfish.  Constant 
indulgence  of  the  passions  blunts  every  finer  sensibility, 
and  extinguishes  generosity  of  character.  The  affec- 
tions are  narrowed  by  depravity,  and  all  that  corrupts 
the  moral  nature,  contracts  the  social.  The  voluptuary 
is  by  necessity  selfish,  and  the  gifted  voluptuary  eflfec- 
tively  so.  The  voluptuary  of  talents  is  selfish  by  in- 
stinct, and  selfish  by  ability ;  by  instinct  he  pursues 
merely  his  own  gratification,  and  by  ability  he  makes 
others  the  instruments  of  it.  Thus  it  is  with  Falstafi*. 
All  are  for  his  use,  and,  except  for  that,  he  esteems 
them  of  no  value.  The  prince  is  to  supply  his  money  ; 
Dame  Quickly  is  to  provide  his  food ;  the  page  is  for 
his  service  ;  and  Bardolf  for  his  jests. 


32  LECTURES   AND   ESSAYS. 

Seeing  that  so  much  of  the  selfish  and  the  heartless 
enters  into  this  character,  why  is  it  not  more  odious 
to  us  ?  The  fact  is,  the  brilliant  qualities  alone  of 
FalstafT  render  him  attractive  ;  and  his  vicious  ones  are 
not  directly  or  aforethought  inhuman.  He  is  not  in 
earnest  for  any  thing  ;  he  has  no  enthusiasm ;  he  ad- 
mires nothing ;  he  covets  merely  to  live  jovially,  and  to 
live  at  ease.  Companions  to  his  wish  around  him,  fare 
to  his  taste  before  him  ;  plenty  of  sack,  and  a  sea-coal 
fire  ;  no  disturbances  from  justices  or  duns  ;  and  he 
would  have  the  best  Elysium  he  could  conceive  or 
picture.  He  does  not  love  any,  neither  does  he  hate 
any.  If  he  is  wanting  in  affection,  he  is  also  void  of 
malice.  It  is  from  this  conviction  that  we  tolerate  him  ; 
that  we  laugh  at  his  jokes,  and  revel  in  the  prodigality 
of  his  fancy.  Did  we  feel  in  him  any  positive  inhu- 
manity, his  jokes  would  disgust,  and  his  fancy  would 
revolt  us.  And,  besides,  selfish  though  he  be,  there  is 
a  sort  of  rude  friendliness  about  him.  Though  he  uses 
Bardolf,  he  does  not  abuse  him.  Even  when  he  is 
most  exacting,  he  pays  back  more  than  he  receives,  in 
the  humor  and  the  wit  by  which  he  diversifies  the  lives 
of  those  who  serve  him  ;  and  this  he  seems  to  know 
most  thoroughly,  and  not  to  set  it  any  whit  below  its 
value.  He  is  often  grotesque,  but  he  is  never  tyranni- 
cal ;  and  between  himself  and  the  page  there  goes  on  a 


FALSTAFF.  38 

Strain  of  playfulness,  in  which  his  rollicking  jokes  appear 
to  conceal  an  underlying  vein  of  gentleness  and  ten- 
derness. He  is  a  big,  fat,  easy-going,  easy-living  man ; 
who  is  not  unkind,  but  will  be  indulged  ;  who  can  bear 
much  scolding,  and  yet  is  liked  by  those  who  scold 
him  the  loudest  and  with  the  most  justice  ;  a  jovial, 
joyous,  care-hating  man,  who  will  not  beg  pardon  of 
the  world  for  being  in  it ;  and  who,  moreover,  thinks 
that  the  world  ought  to  keep  him  well  while  it  has 
him. 

As  it  is,  then,  we  take  him  for  what  he  is,  and  accept 
the  pleasure  he  affords.  He  does  not  arouse  our  antipa- 
thies, and  he  does  not  falsify  our  expectations.  He  is 
open  and  clear  to  our  view,  and  we  know  him  as  he  is ; 
we  do  not  look  for  moral  greatness  in  him,  as  we  do 
not  require  him  to  walk  a  thousand  miles  successively 
in  a  thousand  hours.  We  should  never  mistake  him  for 
a  perepitetic  philosopher,  and  we  feel  no  anger  because 
he  is  not.  As  little  should  we  mistake  him  for  a  patriot 
or  a  philanthropist.  We  should  have  had  no  hope,  did 
he  live  in  our  age,  to  see  him  volunteer  in  the  Greek 
war,  or  a  missionary  to  the  heathens  of  India.  We 
should  despair  to  move  his  heart  to  subscribe  to  the 
Bible  Society.  Believing  merely  in  this  world,  he 
would  have  no  care  beyond  his  own  term  of  possession. 
With  the  Irishman  in  the  house  on  fire,  he  would  proba- 

VOL.  I.  3 


34  LECTURES   AND    ESSAYS. 

bly  exclaim,  What  is  it  to  me  ?  I  am  but  a  tenant.  Go 
to,  go  to,  (he  would  say,)  annoy  me  not  with  these  vain 
disturbances  ;  let  your  melancholy  bipeds  take  such 
things  in  charge  ;  let  your  lean  folks  see  to  them  ;  let 
your  restless,  attenuated  apologies  for  humanity,  that 
have  no  appetite  and  no  digestion,  busy  themselves 
with  your  spiritual  irritations  ;  but  leave  an  honest  man 
in  peace,  who  understands  what  is  good,  and  who 
knows  how  to  use-  it. 

To  lay  aside  levity  of  expression,  earnest  purpose  is 
foreign  to  characters  of  the  FalstafF  order.  Serious- 
ness, for  good  or  evil,  is  no  part  of  their  nature ;  and  if 
we  laugh  at  their  wit,  it  is  with  no  approbation  of  their 
vices.  We  may  relax  with  the  indolent,  and  yet  not 
depart  from  the  worthy  ;  we  may  contemplate  a  phase 
of  human  nature,  and  though  we  do  not  resist  the  mirth 
which  it  excites,  neither  need  we  turn  from  it  without 
some  addition  to  our  wisdom. 

And  this  remark  applies,  I  think,  with  very  peculiar 
force  to  any  intelligent  reflection  on  the  character  of 
FalstafF.  What  a  mournful  condition  of  humanity  is 
presented  to  us  in  the  debasement  of  talent  to  the 
appetites  !  Behold  it  in  the  picture  set  before  us  in 
FalstafF!  Look  at  that  gray-headed,  gray-bearded  old 
man,  lolling,  bloated  on  the  dregs  of  life  ;  the  desires 
insatiate  as  strength  declines  ;  the  senses  gross,  while 


FALSTAFF. 


3» 


a  brilliant  imagination  flows  in  radiance  over  them,  as 
the  sun  upon  a  morass;  abilities,  which  might  have 
exalted  empires,  devoted  to  the  cooking  of  a  capon  or 
the  merits  of  a  sack  posset ;  eloquence  and  wit  lavished 
upon  blackguards  ;  law,  honor,  courage,  chastity,  made 
a  jest.  Laugh,  it  is  true,  you  must ;  but,  when  you 
have  laughed,  turn  back  and  think  ;  and  after  thinking, 
you  will  admit  that  tragedy  itself  has  not  any  thing 
more  sad. 

In  the  character  of  Falstaff  there  is  a  foregone  con- 
clusion, upon  which  every  thoughtful  mind  will  dwell. 
He  is  presented  to  us  an  old  man,  "  written  down  old, 
with  all  the  characters  of  age."     We  have,  therefore, 
before  us  the  last   stage  of  a  life,  and  we  have  its 
ultimate   result.     Were  we   to  meet,  in  actual   inter- 
course, a  man  with  the  genius  and  habits  of  Falstaff, 
we  would  know  that  a  miserable  experience  lay  behind 
it.     The  brilliant  wit  of  the  antiquated  libertine  might, 
for   a   moment,   cause   us   to   forget    the   purpose   of 
existence,  but  soon,  the  bloated  spectre  would  become 
to  us   its   most   solemn   memento.     Much,  we  would 
know,  of  excellent  living  material  had  been  spoiled, 
ere  the  ruin  which  we  gazed  on,  could  exist.     There 
was  a  youth  to  this  old  age.     We  are  sure  that  com- 
manding abilities  enriched  it,  for,  even  in  their  last 
abuse,  these  abilities  are  yet  commanding ;  and  truth. 


36  LECTURES   AND   ESSAYS. 

as  it  is  now,  could  not  always  have  been  a  jest.  By 
what  process,  we  would  ask,  has  the  noble  been 
changed  into  the  base  ?  By  a  process,  alas,  too  often 
repeated  ever  to  be  strange  !  There  was  fine  judg- 
ment, but  it  was  not  under  the  guidance  of  rectitude. 
There  was  imagination,  but  it  was  not  chastened  by 
purity.  There  was  sensibility,  but  it  fell  amidst  grosser 
pleasures,  and  among  them  it  was  smothered.  The 
merely  intellectual  faculties  kept  their  supremacy,  and 
the  passions  went  from  strength  to  strength.  In  the 
midst  of  boon  companions,  the  royalty  of  sheer  mind 
was  acknowledged.  The  discourse  of  a  strong  reason 
compelled  respect,  even  through  the  shoutings  of 
revelry.  The  corruscations  of  a  fire -lit  fancy  played 
among  the  broken  clouds  of  nightly  orgies,  and  tinted 
their  ragged  fringes  with  golden  light.  Days  there 
were,  which  excitement  shortened,  and  nights  which 
gaiety  prolonged.  While  the  senses  had  the  delusion 
of  an  immortality  in  youth,  pleasure  appeared  peren- 
nial ;  it  seemed  to  have  a  fairness  which  could  never 
wither,  to  flourish  with  a  summer  bloom  which  no  frost 
could  chill.  Years  wore  on,  the  physical  powers  grew 
sluggish,  and  the  mental  powers  selfish.  At  this  stage 
of  his  course,  let  us  suppose  that  we  have  such  a 
person  in  the  character  of  FalstafT.  He  has  come  to  a 
dishonored  and  to  a  comfortless  age.     The  world  owes 


FALSTAFF.  37 

him  no  reverence.  Mankind  is  indebted  to  such  a  man 
for  nothing  but  his  example  ;  and,  for  his  example, 
only  as  a  warning.  He  has  been  untrue  to  the  affec- 
tions, and  now  he  has  no  affections  true  to  him.  Old, 
unwieldy,  infirm,  wifeless,  childless,  friendless,  he  is  at 
last  alone,  among  the  dishonest  and  the  false. 

A  sad  life  is  that  which  is  called  a  life  of  pleasure  ; 
and  it  is  immeasurably  sad  when  the  sons  of  genius 
enslave  themselves  to  it.  How  often  must  remorse 
appal  them  !  What  alternations  to  them  of  anguish 
and  lassitude  !  What  nights  of  madness,  and  what 
days  of  sorrow  !  Oh,  how  terrible  to  think  of  the  past, 
when  the  past  is  an  ocean  overhung  with  darkness,  and 
the  shipwrecked  faculties  tossed  in  fragments  upon  its 
waves !  Take  into  your  mental  view  some  voluptuary, 
who  might  have  been  an  ornament  to  his  species,  but 
whom  the  infatuation  of  the  senses  has  destroyed. 
Behold  him  in  a  moment  of  repentance,  and  in  solitude. 
Mark  the  wretchedness  of  his  face,  and  the  convulsions 
of  his  breast.  Look  at  him  in  his  joyless  home,  where 
ruin  is  gathering  to  its  last  desolation,  where  hearts  are 
throbbing  which  must  soon  be  broken.  For  a  little, 
the  man,  the  generous,  the  loving  man,  seems  to 
triumph  in  his  nature  ;  a  new  life  seems  to  spring  forth 
in  his  weeping,  the  return  of  an  alienated  heart  to  its 
allegiance,  of  a  wandering  soul  to  its  peace,  and  a  light 


30  LECTURES   AND   ESSAYS. 

of  joy  begins  to  overspread  his  dwelling.  Watch  him 
again  encircled  by  his  companions  ;  watch  him,  amused 
by  the  clashings  of  intoxicated  eloquence ;  whirled  in 
the  mazes  of  a  delirious  imagination ;  the  fatal  spell 
comes  over  him  again  ;  he  gives  himself  to  the  trance 
with  his  eyes  open,  and  the  next  time  he  awakes,  he 
awakes  to  his  perdition. 

The  law  of  compensation  operates  with  certainty, 
and  it  operates  impartially.  To  this  solemn  fact  our 
great  dramatist  is  ever  faithful.  This  august  poet  of 
conscience  and  the  heart,  this  wonderful  revealer  of 
the  passions  and  their  struggles,  this  moralist  of  insight, 
almost  of  inspiration,  never  forgets  the  eternal  princi- 
ples of  right  and  wrong.  In  Falstaff,  even  as  in 
Macbeth,  Shakspeare  vindicates  these  principles.  Fal- 
staif  is  loosely  related  to  other  men ;  other  men  are, 
therefore,  loosely  related  to  him.  He  does  not  reap 
attachment  where  he  has  only  sown  indifference.  His 
creed  is  turned  on  himself.  He  has  no  faith  in 
excellence,  and  he  gets  no  credit  for  possessing  any. 
His  practice  is  retorted  as  well  as  his  creed.  He 
uses  his  inferiors,  and  his  superiors  use  him.  They 
give  him  their  presence  when  it  is  their  desire  to  be 
amused,  but  they  discard  him  as  a  worn  rag  when 
gaiety  is  no  longer  seemly.  Falstaff  occasions  mirth, 
but  does  not  gain  esteem.     He  adds  to  the  brightness 


FALSTAFF.  39 

of  the  revel,  but  when  the  revel  is  over  he  is  paid  by- 
no  gratitude.  For  the  vile  there  can  be  no  esteem. 
Esteem  cannot  be  where  there  is  no  confidence  ;  and 
there  can  be  no  confidence  where  there  is  no  respect. 
The  pure  cannot  have  respect  for  the  vicious ;  and  the 
vicious  have  no  respect  for  each  other.  Their  associa- 
tion precludes  all  reverence,  for  it  is  a  cohesion  in 
common  infamy.  They  tolerate  each  other  upon  a 
mutual  suppression  of  moral  distinctions ;  but  there 
are  times,  when  the  bad  appear  to  the  bad  more 
detestable  than  they  possibly  can  to  the  upright. 
The  upright  look  not  on  the  worst  of  their  brethren 
without  a  touch  of  mercy ;  but  the  bad,  under  the 
laceration  of  their  crimes,  glare  upon  their  compeers 
with  unmitigated  horror.  The  bonds  which  keep  them 
together  are  as  fragile  as  they  are  corrupt,  and  when 
low  interest  or  depraved  gratification  is  exhausted, 
always  easy  to  be  severed.  The  vicissitude  which 
breaks  up  the  combination  finds  in  every  brother 
of  it  a  traitor  or  an  enemy.  When  once,  therefore, 
a  man  plunges  into  a  gross  existence,  he  will,  in  time, 
discover  that  even  the  lowest  will  not  do  him  rever- 
ence. He  will  be  rejected  by  the  persons  who  basked 
in  the  radiance  of  his  fancy,  and  who  were  electrified 
by  the  flashes  of  his  wit.  Approbation  is  not  for  great 
talents,  but  for  good  works.     Wages  belong  to   the 


40  LECTURES   AND   ESSAYS. 

laborer,  not  to  the  idler,  and  much  less  to  the  spend- 
thrift. It  is  no  matter  for  praise  that  a  man  has  a 
strong  intellect,  which  is  active  only  in  debasement ; 
.that  he  has  an  affluence  of  imagination,  which  is 
squandered  in  corruption ;  that  he  has  a  rich  faculty 
of  eloquence,  which  is  dumb  on  every  generous 
theme  ;  and  absent  from  all  worthy  places,  which 
is  only  to  be  heard  among  inebriate  debaters,  and 
is  only  to  be  aroused  by  maudlin  applause.  No  glory 
is  for  this  man  but  shame,  and  shame  the  more 
burning  for  his  genius. 

The  end  of  Falstaff  may  stand  as  a  type  for  the 
close  of  every  such  life.  It  was  without  regret  and 
without  honor.  There  is  no  life  so  melancholy  in 
its  close,  as  that  of  a  licentious  wit.  The  companions 
with  whom  he  jested  abandon  him ;  the  hope  of  the 
visible  world  is  gone,  and,  in  the  spiritual,  he  has  no 
refuge.  Utterly  impoverished  in  all  means  of  amuse- 
ment and  comfort,  he  is  thrown  entirely  on  himself; 
and,  when  he  can  least  bear  to  be  alone,  he  is 
delivered  over  to  unmitigated  solitude.  Pleasure  was 
the  bond  by  which  he  held  his  former  associates,  and 
by  affliction  that  bond  is  broken.  The  gay  assembly 
takes  no  thought  of  him,  and  the  place  therein  shall 
know  him  no  more.  Instead  of  the  hilarious  looks 
which  were  wont   to  beekm  around  him^  a  crowd  of 


FALSTAFF.  41 

ghastly  images  are  flitting  in  his  solitary  room  ;  in- 
stead of  a  board  groaning  under  the  weight  of  the 
feast,  a  couch  is  made  hard  with  the  pressure  of 
disease ;  instead  of  the  blaze  of  many  lights,  there  is 
the  dimness  of  a  single  taper ;  and  for  the  song 
and  the  viol,  there  are  the  meanings  of  death. 

Laurence  Sterne  had  sentiment,  which  was  often 
expressed  with  the  most  delicate  tenderness,  but  he 
debased  the  finest  of  humor  by  the  grossest  of  ribaldry. 
He  scattered  about  him  the  wit  of  Rabelais,  and  his 
filth  also  ;  but  when  his  brilliant  career  was  run, 
there  were  none  to  cheer  him  at  the  end.  "The 
last  offices,"  Sir  Walter  Scott  tells  us,  "  were  ren- 
dered him,  not  in  his  own  house,  or  by  kindred 
affection,  but  in  an  inn,  and  by  strangers."  Sir  Wal- 
ter also  remarks,  that  Sterne's  death  strikingly  resem- 
bled FalstafTs.  Brinsley  Sheridan  was,  like  Falstaff, 
companion  to  a  Prince  of  Wales.  He  was,  also,  like 
Falstaff,  "  a  fellow  of  infinite  jest,  of  most  excellent  fan- 
cy." He  lavished  upon  this  heir  of  kings  the  bounties 
of  his  humor  and  his  eloquence,  and  in  return  for  such 
wealth,  the  heir  of  kings  abandoned  the  donor.  When 
the  lights  went  out  upon  the  banquet,  the  man  who 
threw  the  glory  over  it  was  no  more  remembered. 
But,  when  the  frame  sickened  and  the  soul  drooped, 
no  royalty  was  at  hand  ;  when  the  eye  had  no  more 


42  LECTURES   AND   ESSAYS. 

the  lustre  of  wit,  it  looked  in  vain  for  brothers  of  the 
feast ;  when  lips,  from  which  there  once  flew  winged 
words,  feebly  stammered  titled  names,  none  who  bore 
those  names  were  present  to  hear.  The  spendthrift, 
both  in  property  and  talents,  was  left  alone  with  fate ; 
and  while  eternity  was  opening  for  his  spirit,  the  bailiffs 
were  watching  for  his  corpse. 

The  late  Theodore  Hook  had  vast  capacities  for 
amusing,  and  he,  too,  was  a  favorite  with  nobles  and 
with  princes.  His  repartees  banished  dullness  from 
their  parties,  and  his  pen  was  the  slave  of  their 
order.  He  was  equally  the  champion  of  their  po- 
litics, and  the  glory  of  their  dinner  tables.  He  was, 
in  fact,  a  wit  of  all-work  in  aristocratic  houses.  He 
played,  jested,  conversed  ;  tried,  by  every  device,  to 
make  himself  generally  useful  to  his  entertainers,  and 
he  was  not  unsuccessful.  His  brain  was  a  storehouse 
of  combustibles,  out  of  which  he  played  off  intellectual 
fire-works  in  every  caprice  of  oddity  ;  his  listless  spec- 
tators gazed  and  admired,  retired  when  the  exhibition 
was  over,  and  forgot  the  show.  Meanwhile,  secret 
wretchedness  was  devouring  this  man's  life,  and  out- 
ward ruin  was  collecting  on  his  head.  He  had  gone 
through  the  experience  of  his  class  ;  he  outran  his 
means,  depended  on  those  whom  he  had  amused,  and 
found  it  was  reliance  upon  a  vapor.     His  comicry  was 


FALSTAFF.  ^  43 

all  they  wanted ;  they  could  afford  him  laughter,  but 
not  sympathy  ;  they  could  join  in  his  merriment,  but 
they  had  no  concern  in  his  distress.  His  death  was 
sudden,  it  was  silent,  and  it  was  in  poverty  ;  "iZe  died^ 
and  made  no  sign  !  " 

This  class  is  well  embodied  in  Falstaff,  in  his  life, 
also  in  his  death.  No  death  in  Shakspeare  is  more 
sadly  impressive  to  me  than  that  of  Falstaff.  In  the 
other  deaths  there  is  the  sweetness  of  innocence,  or  the 
force  of  passion.  Desdemona  expires  in  her  gentle- 
ness ;  Hamlet,  with  all  his  solemn  majesty  about  him  ; 
Macbeth  reels  beneath  the  blow  of  destiny  ;  Richard,  in 
the  tempest  of  his  courage  and  his  wickedness,  finds  a 
last  hour  conformable  to  his  cruel  soul ;  Lear  has  at 
once  exhausted  life  and  misery  ;  Othello  has  no  more 
for  which  he  can  exist ;  but  the  closing  moments  of 
Falstaff  are  gloomy  without  being  tragic ;  they  are 
dreary  and  oppressive,  with  little  to  relieve  the  sinking 
of  our  thoughts,  except  it  be  the  presence  of  humanity 
in  the  person  of  Mrs.  Quickly.  When  prince  and 
courtier  had  forsaken  their  associate,  this  humble 
woman  remained  near  him.  The  woman,  whose  prop- 
erty he  squandered,  and  whose  good  name  he  did  not 
spare ;  this  woman,  easily  persuaded  and  easily  de- 
ceived, would  not  quit  even  a  worthless  man  in  his 
helpless  hour,  nor  speak  severely  of  him  when  that 


44  ^         LECTURES   AND    ESSAYS. 

hour  was  ended.  Here  is  the  greatness  of  Shakspeare: 
he  never  forgets  our  nature,  and  in  the  most  unpromis- 
ing circumstances  he  compels  us  to  feel  its  sacredness. 
The  last  hours  even  of  FalstafF  he  enshrouds  in  the 
dignity  of  death  ;  and,  by  a  few  simple  and  pathetic 
words  in  the  mouth  of  his  ignorant  but  charitable 
hostess,  he  lays  bare  the  mysterious  struggles  of  an 
expiring  soul.  "  A  parted,"  she  says,  "  even  just  be- 
tween twelve  and  one,  e'en  at  the  turning  o'  the  tide ; 
for  after  I  saw  him  fumble  with  the  sheets,  and  play 
with  flowers,  and  smile  upon  his  finger  ends,  I  knew 
there  was  but  one  way,  for  his  nose  was  sharp  as  a 
pen,  and  a  babbled  of  green  fields.  How  now,  Sir 
John,  quoth  I  ?  What,  man,  be  of  good  cheer !  So  a 
cried  out,  God !  God  !  God  !  three  or  four  times  ;  then 
all  was  cold." 

Thus,  as  Shakspeare  pictures,  a  man  of  pleasure 
died.  Even  upon  him  nature  again  exerts  her  sway  ; 
the  primitive  delights  of  childhood  revisit  his  final 
dreaming ;  and  he  plays  with  flowers,  and  he  babbles 
of  green  fields.  And  that  voice  of  an  eternal  Power, 
which  was  lost  in  the  din  of  the  festival,  must  have 
utterance  in  the  travail  of  mortality  ;  and  exclamations, 
which  falter  to  the  silence  of  the  tomb,  make  confession 
of  a  faith  which  all  the  practice  had  denied. 


CEABBE. 


Before  proceeding  to  speak  on  the  poetry  of  Crabbe, 
which  forms  the  subject  of  the  present  Lecture,  allow 
me  to  make  some  brief  allusion  to  his  life. 

The  Rev.  George  Crabbe  was  born  in  Aldborough, 
in  1754.  Aldborough  is  a  seacoast  village  of  Suffolk, 
on  the  border  of  the  German  Ocean.  His  parents  were 
in  straitened  circumstances,  and  he  soon  entered  on  a 
youth  of  hard  condition  and  severe  distress.  His  father, 
a  man  of  strong  intellect,  had  the  sagacity  to  perceive 
the  son's  abilities,  and,  what  little  his  narrow  means 
afforded,  he  gave  to  aid  their  cultivation.  Partly  by 
intervals  of  schooling,  but  mainly  by  his  own  exertions, 
George  acquired  the  rudiments  of  English  and  the 
classics.  With  this  imperfect  instruction,  he  was  bound 
apprentice  to  a  surgeon.  His  first  master  was  a  tyrant 
and  an  ignoramus,  and  from  him  he  endured  all  sorts 
of  injury,  oppression,  and  insult.  He  finished  his  course 


46  LECTURES   AND   ESSAYS. 

with  another,  and  he  was  more  of  a  Christian  and  a 
gentleman. 

In  the  mean  time,  he  wrote  verses  in  maga- 
zines, and,  like  all  bards  since  the  deluge,  he  fell  in 
love.  Surely  this  business  of  poor  poets  falling  in 
love  is  a  great  folly  under  the  sun.  If  they  would  be 
content  to  court  the  Muses  with  Platonic  wooing,  they 
might  have  our  forbearance  ;  these  gentle  creatures 
can  eat  ambrosia  with  the  gods,  and  drink  water  from 
Helicon.  But  when  the  sons  of  Parnassus,  who  have 
only  kingdoms  in  the  stars  and  castles  in  the  clouds, 
presume  to  damsels  who  need  more  solid  sustenance 
than  moonshine,  they  are  guilty  of  most  heinous  crime, 
and  if  common  sense  were  judge,  they  should  undergo 
their  due  desert  without  mitigation  and  without  mercy. 
But  as  things  are  managed,  the  rogues  escape  ;  they 
tell  women  they  are  angels  ;  these  angels  are  women, 
and  believe  them.  It  is,  however,  but  the  common 
fashion  of  the  world,  and,  whether  in  prose  or  rhyme, 
the  history  of  men  and  maidens  is  the  same  to  the  end 
of  the  chapter.  Crabbe  rejoiced  in  his  magazine  and 
his  mistress ;  they  were  no  bad  things  to  rejoice  in,  and 
they  were  all  he  had. 

Thus  he  arrived  at  that  point  of  manhood,  when  all 
who  were  not  provided  with  hereditary  fortune,  must 
enter  on  some  settled  mode  of  labor.     He  returned  to' 


CRABBE.  47 

the  house  of  his  parents  with  at  least  the  name  of  a 
profession.  Either,  however,  from  want  of  skill,  or 
want  of  sphere,  his  profession  served  him  to  little  pur- 
pose, and  for  a  period  he  was  not  only  a  burden  to 
his  home,  but  a  burden  very  unwillingly  endured. 
The  character  of  his  father  had  undergone  a  melan- 
choly change.  His  father  had  been  always  poor  ;  his 
prancipal  support  was  a  humble  government  situation, 
connected  with  ti  tax  at  that  time  on  salt ;  his  income 
was  scanty,  and  his  temper  had  become  unamiable  ;  to 
both  he  added  the  habits  of  a  tippler,  and  any  leisure 
that  his  employment  allowed,  he  spent  in  surly  indo* 
lence  in  his  house,  or  in  boisterous  carousals  in  the 
tavern. 

Of  sensitive  spirit  and  independent  character,  George 
felt  his  situation  a  bitter  bondage  ;  and,  sooner  than  eat 
the  bread  of  idleness,  he  often  became  his  father's 
porter,  and  carried  sacks  from  the  vessels  to  the  ware- 
house. In  the  intervals  of  chagrin  and  labor,  he  was 
not  unmindful  of  his  darling  pursuits ;  and  of  these  in- 
tervals two  complete  poems  were  the  result  — "  The 
Village,"  and  "  The  Library."  With  these  he  deter- 
mined to  go  to  London,  and  to  London  he  went.  Once 
there,  his  whole  stock  consisted  of  a  very  scanty  ward- 
robe and  three  pounds  in  money.  Simple  as  Fielding's 
Parson  Adams,  his  manuscripts  seemed  to  him  a  mine 


48  LECTURES   AND   ESSAYS. 

of  wealth,  but  booksellers  returned  them  to  him  unread ; 
and  when,  with  better  hopes,  he  presented  them  to  the 
wealthy,  liveried  lackeys,  after  a  few  days,  handed 
them  back  with  an  insolent  version  of  their  masters' 
cold  refusal. 

In  the  mean  time,  he  was  reduced  to  most  indigent 
necessity.  Credit  with  his  landlady  was  all  but  ex- 
hausted, his  wardrobe  was  in  pawn,  a  meal  had  become 
rare,  and  a  roof  uncertain.  In  the  last  extremity  of 
wretchedness,  by  a  happy  inspiration,  he  wrote  to  the 
celebrated  orator,  Edmund  Burke.  The  letter  was 
eloquent  —  worthy  of  a  man,  and  a  man  of  genius. 
The  poet  called  ;  the  orator  received  him  with  courte- 
ous generosity.  The  interview,  as  described  by  Mr. 
Crabbe's  filial  biographer,  is  an  honor  to  the  poet  and 
the  politician.  As  alike  creditable  to  literature  and 
human  nature,  I  extract  it : 

"  Mr.  Burke  was  at  this  period  (1781 )  engaged  in  the 
hottest  turmoils  of  parliamentary  opposition,  and  his 
own  pecuniary  circumstances  were  by  no  means  very 
affluent ;  yet  he  gave  instant  attention  to  this  letter,  and 
the  verses  which  it  inclosed.  He  immediately  ap- 
pointed an  hour  for  my  father  to  call  upon  him  at  his 
house  in  London ;  and  the  short  interview  which 
ensued,  entirely  and  forever  changed  the  nature  of  his 
fortunes.     He  was,  in  the  common  phrase,  '  a  made 


CEABBE.  4S 

man'  from  that  hour.  He  went  into  Mr.  Burke's  room 
a  poor,  young  adventurer,  spurned  by  the  opulent  and 
rejected  by  the  publishers,  his  last  shilling  gone,  and  all 
but  his  last  hope  with  it ;  he  came  out  virtually  secure 
of  almost  all  the  good  fortune,  that  by  successive  steps 
afterwards  fell  to  his  lot ;  his  genius  acknowledged  by 
one  whose  verdict  could  not  be  questioned  ;  his  charac- 
ter and  manners  appreciated  and  approved  by  a  noble 
and  capacious  heart,  whose  benevolence  knew  no 
limits  but  its  power  —  that  of  a  giant  intellect,  who  was 
in  feeling  an  unsophisticated  child  —  a  bright  example 
of  the  close  affinity  between  superlative  talents  and  the 
warmth  of  generous  affections." 

Burke  took  the  poet,  pale  and  shabby  as  he  was,  to 
his  country  seat,  at  Beaconsfield,  and  there  he  gave 
him  a  sanctuary  for  his  studies  and  a  refuge  from  his 
wants.  He  gained  him  friends,  procured  him  ordina- 
tion in  the  Church  of  England,  obtained  for  him  a 
chaplaincy  with  the  Duke  of  Rutland,  and  lost  no  sight 
of  him  until  the  grave  drew  the  curtain  which  shuts 
out  earth  with  all  its  wisdom  as  well  as  all  its  vanities. 
Thenceforth  success  waited  on  his  poetry,  and  promo- 
tion on  his  priesthood  ;  fortune  smiled  upon  them  both. 
The  remainder  of  a  long  life  was  all  that  a  wise  man 
could  desire.  Through  a  great  portion  of  it  he  had  for 
his  companion  the  woman  of  his  youthful  choice ;  his 

VOL.  I.  4 


50  LECTURES   AND   ESSAYS. 

children  were  what  his  piety  and  love  could  wish  ; 
plenty  abounded  within  his  gates,  and  peace  governed 
his  household.  Of  pitiful  and  kindly  heart,  of  simple, 
unsophisticated  manners,  he  had  the  affection  of  the 
poor  and  the  esteem  of  the  noble.  He  went  down  to 
a  good  old  age  with  a  poet's  fame,  and  he  lay  upon  a 
death-bed  with  a  Christian's  hope.  His  life,  admirably 
and  modestly  written  by  his  son,  I  would  recommend 
to  my  youthful  hearers  as  a  fine  lesson  of  patience, 
piety  and  wisdom. 

In  reading  such  stories  as  Crabbe's,  we  cannot  think 
of  his  trials  in  London,  without  recalling  some  of  his 
literary  predecessors :  we  recall  Samuel  Johnson  and 
David  Garrick  tramping  thither  on  foot,  having  on  their 
arrival  three  pence  halfpenny  between  them ;  we 
recall  that  same  Johnson,  —  that  unwieldy  mass  of 
spleen  and  bnenevolence,  of  eloquent  thought  and 
childish  superstition,  toiling  through  heroic  years,  con- 
stant to  his  noble  task,  in  long,  unnoticed  and  unre- 
warded labor.  Yet  there  was  that  in  those  meditations 
of  destitute  genius  which  shortened  the  hours  of  pover- 
ty ;  a  glory  and  a  joy  which  brightened  the  unpictured 
walls  of  the  garret ;  a  sweetness  of  virtue  on  the  hard, 
rough  bed,  which  forsakes  the  couches  of  the  proud. 
We  recall  also  the  hapless  Richard  Savage,  strolling 
after  midnight  to   the  refuge  of  some  familiar  shed; 


CRABBE.  •  51 

poor  Boyce  stiffened  in  his  blanket ;  unhappy  Otway 
choked  with  his  penny  loaf;  and  youthful  Chatterton, 
by  his  own  dismissal,  sent  to  his  last  and  dread  account. 
These  are  but  a  few  noted  victims  who  have  left  names, 
from  the  thousands  who  never  had  any. 

How  many  cast  themselves  on  the  terrible  experiment 
of  a  literary  life  in  London,  who  are  never  more  to  be 
heard  of!  How  many  starve  where  they  expected 
fortune,  and  find  obscurity  where  they  hoped  for 
fame !  How  many  wear  out  existence  in  abortive 
efforts,  exhaust  their  enthusiasm  in  alternations  of  ex- 
pectance and  despondency ;  behold  the  beams  which 
lingered  longest,  vanish  from  the  most  distant  verge  of 
the  horizon ;  then,  close  their  career  in  madness,  or 
drop  their  unknown  being  into  the  gulf  of  everlasting 
oblivion !  Where  are  the  throngs  of  ardent  and  exultant 
men,  who  yearly  point  their  tracks  towards  the  living 
wilderness,  but  show  no  traces  of  return  ?  Perhaps  a 
sister,  in  a  distant  province,  weeps  upon  her  nightly 
pillow  for  an  absent  brother ;  perhaps  a  mother  holds 
her  son  in  holy  thoughts,  and  recalls  him  in  her  speech- 
less prayer  ;  but  haply,  in  some  sunless  den  of  literary 
poverty,  he  has  departed  in  silence  to  his  eternal  home ! 

The  literary  life,  like  the  military,  holds  a  thousand 
promises  to  the  ear,  which  must  be  broken  to  the  hope  ; 
like  the  military,  it  is  in  fancy  all  bright  and  joyous. 


52  IfECTURES   AND   ESSAYS. 

with  no  gleam  in  the  future  but  the  blaze  of  glory,  and 
no  cloud  upon  its  light,  but  the  flag  of  victory  ;  like  the 
military  too,  on  the  other  side,  it  is  in  the  reality  to  the 
multitude  of  aspirants  an  experience  of  toil,  danger,  an 
anxious  life,  an  obscure  death  ;  and  instead  of  a  sun 
rising  high  upon  their  path,  opening  to  them  a  wide 
horizon,  and  filling  it  with  the  gladness  of  their  fame, 
they  have  the  scorching  heat  of  a  weary  day  ;  and  the 
shadow,  which  at  a  distance,  they  pictured  as  the 
banner  of  their  triumph,  they  find  upon  advancing, 
often  to  be  only  the  dimness  of  a  garret  or  the  black- 
ness of  their  grave.  The  scholar,  like  the  soldier, 
pants  for  distinction,  and  in  the  scholar  it  is  a  desire  as 
humane  as  it  is  profound  ;  it  is  a  generous  desire, 
and  yet  it  can  be  but  rarely  gratified. 

Men  must  content  themselves  to  work  and  be  forgot- 
ten. They  must  work  on,  work  well,  work  faithfully  ; 
and  then,  when  their  labor  is  finished,  be  satisfied  to  go 
into  the  fathomless  and  the  everlasting  silence.  The 
past  as  it  recedes  sinks  into  benevolent  oblivion  ;  and 
nature  mercifully  prepares  a  new  world  for  others  as 
they  come.  The  grass  has  been  scarcely  ten  times 
renewed  upon  our  graves,  when  neighbors  forget  who 
sleep  beneath  them  ;  and  the  fate  of  men  is  that  of 
writings.  Every  large  library  we  enter,  and  every 
olden  folio  we  open,  reminds  us  of  the  facility  with 


CRABBE.  63 

which  the  world  forgets ;  it  is,  in  fact,  the  great  win- 
nowing process,  whereby  the  true  seed  of  thought  is 
preserved,  that  would  otherwise  rot  in  accumulating 
rubbish. 

The  diffusion  of  knowledge,  also,  which  characterizes 
our  age,  whilst  it  has  increased  the  demand  for  litera- 
ture, has  also,  in  a  much  larger  degree,  multiplied  the 
candidates  for  its  distinctions.  Reputation  becomes 
more  and  more  difficult  of  attainment,  and  if  attained, 
more  and  more  transient  and  uncertain  of  possession. 
Literature,  therefore,  as  a  field  for  glory,  is  an  arena 
where  a  tomb  may  be  more  easily  found  than  laurels  ; 
as  a  means  of  support,  it  is  the  very  chance  of  chances. 
These  remarks  have  peculiar  force  in  reference  to 
poetry.  Mediocrity  of  hardship  is  held  fatal;  it  is 
doubly  cursed ;  it  can  procure  neither  fame  nor  food ; 
if  sing  it  must,  the  crowd  will  not  stop  to  listen,  and 
while  it  sings  it  starves.  In  other  days,  poetic  medi- 
ocrity was  not  utterly  hopeless  ;  a  lord  who  longed  for 
praise,  found  a  minstrel  who  wanted  bread  ;  the  peer 
swallowed  the  yearly  ode,  and  the  poet  devoured  his 
daily  loaf.  Mediocrity  ate  its  venal  portion  in  content, 
but  genius  took  it  with  bitterness;  the  one  warbled 
away  comfortably  in  the  cage  of  patronage,  the  other 
drooped  its  pinions,  or  smashed  them  against  the  bars ; 
/     the  one  is  now  broken  on  the  blast  of  an  open  public 


54  LECTURES   AND    ESSAYS. 

opinion,  the  other  mounts  proudly  upon  the  tempest  and 
rises  to  the  sun. 

In  criticism  which  is  not  merely  literary,  but  moral 
also,  it  will  not  seem  inappropriate  to  refer  to  influences 
which  create  poetry  such  as  Crabbe's,  and  to  tendencies 
which  it  indicates. 

The  concerns  of  humble  life  are  the  principal  topics 
on  which  our  poet  dwells  ;  but,  though  in  Crabbe  they 
are  distinctive,  they  have  a  prominent  position  in  all 
the  modern  literature  of  English  life.  Sympathy  is 
in  others ;  reality  in  Crabbe.  Goldsmith  has  idealized 
the  rural  village  in  his  lambent  fancy  and  his  melodious 
verse  ;  he  deceives  us  into  delight ;  and  from  childhood 
to  old  age,  as  Sir  Walter  Scott  has  said,  we  return  to 
him  with  new  desire,  to  his  gentle  pathos,  that  moves 
the  heart  without  storming  the  passions  ;  to  his  happy 
style,  that  wins  attention  without  solicitation,  that  never 
taxes,  and  that  never  tires.  The  description  of  a  poor 
country  girl  in  the  metropolis,  towards  the  close  of 
''  The  Deserted  Village,"  is  a  picture  of  lowly  tragedy, 
which  Crabbe  might  have  conceived  and  painted. 

Many  others  I  might  name,  but  I  pass  on  to  Cowper. 
Cowper,  yet  more  than  Goldsmith,  had  strong  sympa- 
thies with  the  trials  of  the  English  poor.  He  was 
peculiarly  fitted,  by  his  simple  habits  and  benignant 
genius,  to  take  a  strong  interest  in  the  concerns  of 


CRABBE,  55 

lowly  life.  The  objects  amidst  which  he  lived,  and  of 
which  he  loved  to  write,  were,  for  the  most  part,  unpre- 
tending and  retired  ;  the  shaded  walk,  the  neat  trimmed 
garden,  the  sunny  corner,  the  nest  of  flowers,  the 
grassy  valley  and  the  woodland  hill,  the  social  parlor, 
the  cheerful  winter  fire.  From  these,  and  such  things 
as  these,  his  loving  heart  extracted  a  poetry  which 
cannot  fail  of  readers,  while  goodness  has  any  place  in 
letters,  while  the  grace  of  purity  can  give  comeliness  to 
human  speech.  The  poor  man's  labors  and  the  poor 
man's  cares,  were  with  him  in  his  familiar  thoughts ; 
he  paints,  with  true  hand  and  inspired  eye,  the  poor 
man's  home,  the  virtues  and  the  pleasures  of  his  fire- 
side, the  sanctity  of  his  domestic  altar,  the  beauty  of 
humble  holiness,  the  griefs  and  the  joys  that  lie  along 
the  path  of  laborious  life.  Of  all  writers,  he  is  the 
most  sinless  in  art  and  humor.  What  others  turn  to 
ribaldry  or  gall,  he  "  turns  to  prettiness  ;"  in  expression, 
polished  and  effective ;  in  fancy,  playful,  chaste,  rich  ; 
he  stirs  up  mirth  from  the  very  bottom  of  the  heart, 
until  the  shaking  sides  are  tired  and  the  laughing  eyes 
are  dim,  yet  in  no  word  or  hint  does  he  leave  a  trace 
upon  the  soul  which  could  shame  the  holiest  memory 
in  its  holiest  hour.  Pungent  but  not  envenomed, 
uncompromising  but  not  uncharitable,  grave  in  truth, 
gentle  in  ridicule,  he  makes  nothing  odious  but  sin, 
and  he  makes  nothing  laughable  but  folly. 


56  LECTURES  AND   ESSAYS. 

Poetry  such  as  this,  and  such  as  Crabbe's,  is  the 
creation  of  Christianity.  It  is  the  result  of  interests 
which  Christianity  has  developed,  and  of  sympathies 
which  it  has  inspired.  Christianity  has  opened  springs 
of  joy  and  sorrow  before  untouched  ;  it  has  called  new 
and  unimagined  agencies  into  being.  Man  has  received 
a  redemption  from  contempt.  It  may  not  always  save 
man  from  wrong,  but  it  guards  him  from  scorn  ;  much 
he  may  be  made  even  now  to  suffer,  but  he  can  never 
be  as  he  was,  despised.  By  the  glory  it  gives  the  soul, 
the  lowly  and  the  poor  have  gained  importance,  and 
with  importance  they  have  risen  to  a  history  and  a 
literature. 

The  laboring  classes  of  ancient  nations  afforded  no 
scope  for  poetry,  no  materials  for  story.  In  the  univer- 
sal vassalage  which  brooded  over  Pagan  states,  no 
ideal  interest  could  pertain  to  the  unprivileged  masses. 
There  was  nothing  in  the  laughter  or  the  tears  of  the 
multitude,  to  command  attention  or  dignify  description ; 
nothing  to  give  embellishment  to  the  feast,  or  gain  an 
audience  at  the  games.  What  was  it  to  the  proud  and 
mighty,  what  was  it  to  the  learned  and  the  brave,  what 
was  it  to  the  philosophers  of  academy  or  the  philoso- 
phers of  porch,  where  helots  lived  or  how  helots  died  ? 
But  Christianity,  in  its  revelation  of  a  spiritual  and 
immortal  being,  has  given  man  an  infinite  worth;  it 


CRABBE.  5^ 

has  enriched  him  with  an  endowment  independent  of 
social  distinctions,  and  transcendently  superior  to  them. 
In  restraining  the  passions,  it  has  diversified  and  raised 
them  ;  in  exalting  woman,  it  has  created  the  poetry  of 
domestic  life  ;  in  ennobling  every  destiny,  it  has  deep- 
ened and  complicated  all  the  tragic  elements  of  our 
nature ;  it  has  sublimed  the  catastrophe,  both  of  good 
and  evil ;  the  good  with  a  holier  joy,  and  the  evil  with 
a  gloomier  sadness. 

In  beauty  of  forms,  in  harmonies  of  language,  in 
incidents  of  romance,  our  times  certainly  cannot  com- 
pete with  ages  that  are  gone ;  but,  assuredly,  the 
poetry  of  those  departed  ages,  is  more  desirable  than 
their  practice.  Greece  and  Rome,  in  their  classical 
period,  present,  to  our  retrospective  imaginations,  a 
vista  of  most  wondrous  glory.  We  behold  them  in 
remote  and  majestic  serenity,  with  the  sun  of  an 
enchanting  loveliness  lingering  over  them  ;  we  behold 
them  in  fragments  of  art,  unapproachable  and  unrival- 
led ;  we  behold  them  in  a  long  array  of  statues,  tem- 
ples, columns,  but,  while  we  muse  delighted,  we  recall 
not  the  butcheries  of  the  circus  ;  we  are  charmed  with 
the  music  of  noblest  eloquence  and  divinest  poetry, 
but  while  we  are  raptured  with  such  harmonies,  we 
hear  not  the  groans  of  dying  gladiators,  we  hear  not 
the  rabble-yells  which  drowned  them,  we  come  not  in 


58  LECTURES   AND   ESSAYS. 

contact  with  slaveries  wide  almost  as  the  world,  that 
called  forth  no  pity,  and  knew  no  hope  ;  we  compre- 
hend with  no  adequate  conception,  the  wilderness  of 
evil  which  the  gloom  of  heathenism  covered  ;  the  dark 
destinies  which  a  ray  from  heaven  scarcely  pierced; 
the  wretchedness  unsolaced,  and  the  sin  unrebuked  ; 
which  fancy  shudders  to  paint,  and  faith  is  unwilling  to 
believe. 

Europe,  in  the  middle  ages,  has  its  glory  too  ;  a 
glory  that  deludes  us  with  many  fascinations.  A  pic- 
turesque and  romantic  splendor  overspreads  these  ages, 
but  the  obscurity  which  gives  them  mystic  grandeur  to 
our  fancies,  hides  their  evils  from  our  disgust.  Belted 
knight  and  barons  bold,  will  be  ever  fine  in  story ;  we 
call  them  up  in  their  strength  and  bravery ;  we  not  only 
reanimate  them  with  a  new  life  of  resurrection,  but 
we  clothe  them  with  a  new  light  of  transfiguration.  In 
this,  as  in  all  things,  the  beautiful  is  immortal,  the  bad 
has  perished.  These  men  rise  up  before  us  in  their 
chivalric  and  heroic  deeds,  but  the  witnesses  of  their 
crimes  do  not  come  so  quickly ;  the  serfs  whom  they 
trampled,  are  nameless  and  numberless  in  the  dust  of 
centuries  ;  the  cries  of  their  midnight  murders  have 
passed  to  as  deep  a  silence  as  the  laughter  of  their 
midnight  revels  ;  the  eyes  which  they  caused  to  weep, 
have  long  closed  in  final  slumber,  and  the  hearts  which 


CRABBE.  59 

they  crushed,  are  quiet  in  eternal  rest.  A  poetry  of 
the  poor,  which  must  necessarily  be  a  moral  poetiy, 
a  poetry  of  sentiment  and  sympathy,  has  no  alliance 
with  the  gorgeousness  of  chivalric  times  ;  and  the  phy- 
sical luxuriance  and  voluptuous  personification,  which 
belonged  to  Pagan  mythology,  have  no  congruity  with 
modern  poetry. 

Poetry  must  embody  faith,  or  it  is  an  empty  sound. 
Our  faith  has  not  taken  the  material  universe  from 
poetry,  but  it  has  changed  their  relations.  We  have 
not  a  distinct  deity  for  every  region  of  nature ;  every 
object  to  us  does  not  present  an  embodied  god  ;  we  see 
no  goddess  blush  in  the  morning's  dawn ;  we  behold  no 
divinity  clothing  himself  with  light  in  the  rising  sun ; 
we  hear  no  celestial  anger  in  the  tempest  of  the  winds 
and  the  roaring  of  the  seas ;  we  see  no  gods  at  peace  in 
the  serene  calm  of  the  blue  sky,  and  the  gladsome  quiet 
of  the  verdant  earth  ;  we  have  no  vision  of  naiad  or 
nymph,  by  stream  or  fountain,  in  glen  or  cavern. 

And,  it  is  not,  as  I  have  said,  that  creation  is  empty, 
or  that  poetry  has  deserted  nature.  The  same  beautiful 
nature  is  with  us,  as  with  the  ancients  ;  around  us,  as 
around  the  men  of  other  days,  around  Wordsworth  as 
around  Homer,  around  Bryant  as  around  Hesiod.  Ages 
have  not  dimmed  the  sun,  nor  dried  up  from  the  stars 
their  rivers  of  light.      The  same  glorious  temple  is 


60  LECTURES  AND   ESSAYS. 

above  us,  and  the  same  gorgeous  floor  beneath  us ;  the 
desert  has  still  its  spots  of  Eden,  the  sky  has  still  its 
palaces  of  cloud,  the  universe  is  still  the  same,  but  the 
"  gods  many  and  the  lords  many,"  which  bewildered 
fancy  fashioned,  have  dissolved  before  enlightened  rea- 
son. One  God  and  one  Lord  reigns  upon  the  throne  ; 
the  King  eternal  and  immortal,  sways  the  sceptre  of  the 
worlds,  and  commands  the  homage  of  their  worship ; 
one  spirit  moves  and  lives  in  all ;  one  spirit  guides 
and  governs  all.  The  ocean  mirrors  his  immensity, 
the  thunder  shouts  his  praise ;  cataracts,  in  the 
mighty  wilderness,  foam  perennial  incense ;  the  hills 
are  his  everlasting  altars,  and  all  the  elements  are 
his  ministers.  Hence  our  literature  —  above  all,  our 
poetry —  has  not  only  a  more  exalted  inspiration,  but  a 
more  expansive  interest ;  the  poor  have  their  importance 
as  the  rich,  for  Jehovah  has  made  them  both,  and 
before  Jehovah  both  are  equal. 

Crabbe  is  the  poet  of  poverty ;  but  perhaps  that  may 
be  too  fine  a  name  ;  let  us  then  call  him  the  metrical 
historian  of  the  poor.  Among  our  moral  poets,  Crabbe, 
as  the  critics  admit,  is  the  most  original,  the  most 
original  in  topics,  thoughts,  and  style.  His  works 
stand  alone  in  English  literature  ;  and  yet  their  pecu- 
liarity is  their  truth,  and  not  their  invention ;  the  rigor 
of  reality,  and  not  the  witcheries  of  fancy.    The  objects 


CRABBE.  $1 

of  humble  life  are  not  with  Crabbe,  as  they  are  with 
Wordsworth,  mere  occasions  of  philosophic  musings; 
not  forms  that  glide  dimly  in  the  world  of  dreams,  but 
creations  of  flesh  and  blood,  that  dwell  amidst  the  wants 
and  cares  of  earth. 

Crabbe,  in  his  sphere,  is  independent  and  unaided. 
A  Columbus  in  descriptive  and  didactic  poetry,  he 
discovered  a  wild  and  wide  region ;  he  traversed  it  to 
its  utmost  limits,  and  made  it  his  own,  irrevocably  and 
for  ever.  Hardy  and  alone  in  his  explorings,  he  has  no 
traditional  guidance,  and  he  seeks  no  sympathy  from 
romantic  imagination.  In  the  unbeaten  wilderness  to 
which  he  pierced,  he  found  no  inherited  domains,  vene- 
rable with  centuries  of  ancestral  woods ;  no  gray 
abbeys,  whose  bells  had  tolled  before  the  curfew ;  no 
dark-walled  castles,  whose  courts,  in  olden  times,  had 
rung  with  the  tramp  of  warriors  ;  no  heroines  or  heroes, 
no  fair  ladies  or  brave  knights,  no  chivalry  or  crusading, 
no  giants  or  wizards,  no  pigrims  or  saints  ;  none  of 
these  were  of  the  world  which  he  chronicled  ;  but  a 
population  unknown  in  story,  a  population  of  hard 
labor  and  hard  life,  of  lowly  dwellings  and  of  name- 
less graves.  He  revealed,  with  austere  minuteness, 
the  secrets  that  he  found  ;  he  opened  the  concealments 
of  poverty  and  crime ;  he  entered  the  alms-house,  the 
prison,  the  dwellings  of  the  over-taxed  and  over-toiling 


62  LECTURES   AND   ESSAYS. 

poor,  and  he  detailed,  with  pertinacious  veracity,  the 
history  of  their  inmates.  Like  the  "  Ancient  Mariner  " 
of  Coleridge,  he  stopped  the  guests  on  the  threshold  of 
their  luxurious  feast ;  by  a  ruthless  magic  he  chained 
their  attention  to  his  terrible  narrations ;  compelled 
them  to  hear  his  tale  of  "Life  in  Death;"  that  life 
pining  away  in  death,  in  the  midst  of  a  dreary  sea  to 
which  his  listeners  had  never  pierced. 

The  poems  of  Crabbe  may  be  classed  under  three 
distinct  designations,  as  tragic,  moral,  and  satirical ; 
and,  by  the  laws  that  respectively  govern  these,  we 
must  regulate  our  criticism  and  form  our  decision.  If 
we  regard  Crabbe  as  a  tragic  writer,  we  must  not  com- 
plain that  he  is  gloomy  ;  if  we  take  him  as  a  moralist, 
we  must  not  wonder  at  his  severity  ;  if  we  turn  to  him 
as  a  satirist,  we  must  expect  often  to  find  him  bitter  or 
sarcastic. 

Crabbe  is  a  writer  of  harrowing,  tragic  power ;  his 
narratives  are  so  vivid,  as  almost  to  be  dramatic;  you 
not  only  follow  the  incidents  of  a  story,  but  you  con- 
ceive the  presence  of  an  action.  He  lays  bare  the 
human  heart,  and  shows  the  loves  and  hatreds,  the 
vices  and  the  virtues,  that  work  within  it,  the  agonies 
and  fears  that  wreck  and  break  it.  He  observes  the 
passions  in  their  modifications,  he  traces  them  in  all 
their  stages,  he  portrays  them  in  all  their  consequences ; 


CRABBE.  68 

the  love  that  lingers  guileless  to  the  grave,  or  shivers 
the  brain  in  madness  ;  the  revenge  that  never  quits  its 
deadly  thought,  until  it  is  perfected  in  the  horrid  deed ; 
the  remorse  that  follows  sin,  that  haunts  the  affrighted 
conscience  through  existence. 

Never  has  didactic  poet  more  effectively  than  Crabbe, 
exhibited  his  teachings  in  dramatic  example.  His 
characters  are  drawn  with  such  fidelity,  that  you 
behold  them  with  all  their  living  peculiarities.  In 
both  the  description  of  scenes  and  the  portraiture  of 
characters,  we  observe  evidence  of  mournful  thought- 
fulness,  of  accurate  inspection  ;  of  scrupulous  reality, 
of  careful  coloring. 

Fishermen  and  smugglers  are  frequently  his  person- 
ages, and  with  these,  and  their  fortunes,  he  constantly 
links  descriptions  of  the  ocean  which  are  fearful  and 
sublime.  With  austere  and  painful  fidelity,  he  paints 
dreary  portions  of  the  shore  with  most  mournful  acces- 
sories ;  the  desert  beach ;  the  chilly  and  the  slimy 
strand ;  muscle  gatherers  prowling  through  the  mud ; 
smugglers  preparing  to  brave  the  tempest  and  the 
deep  ;  wreckers  watching  for  their  prey.  Taking  a 
barren  field  adjacent  to  the  sea,  by  a  few  salient 
touches ;  such  as  a  ragged  child  torn  by  brambles,  a 
group  of  scattered  hats,  a  company  of  gipseys,  a  strag- 
gling poacher,  a  gaudy  weed,  a   neglected   garden  ; 


64  LECTURES   AND   ESSAYS. 

he  will  make  a  picture  of  sadness,  that  shall  oppress 
you  as  a  thing  of  sense. 

His  style  corresponds  to  his  thoughts;  austere  and 
simple,  he  entrusts  entirely  to  the  naked  force  of  mean- 
ing, and  that  meaning  it  is  impossible  to  mistake.  The 
wickedness  of  sin,  the  wreck  of  passion,  appear  more 
fearful  when  they  are  not  so  much  described  as  dis- 
played by  this  colorless  language,  which,  like  the 
cloudless  atmosphere,  exhibits  objects,  without  exhibit- 
ing itself.  Minuteness  of  touch  is  the  characteristic 
which  critics  commonly  attribute  to  the  moral  pictures 
of  Crabbe.  Generally,  this  may  be  correct,  yet  no 
writer  can  suggest  more  than  Crabbe  does,  at  times,  in 
few  words,  as  where  he  describes  the  lady, 

"  wise,  austere,  and  nice, 
Who  showed  her  virtue,  by  her  scorn  of  vice  ;  " 

Or,  when  he  sets  before  us  the  pliant  parson,  who 
pleased  his  parishioners  by  never  offending  them  ;  one 
of  those  good,  easy  souls,  who  never  know  the  loss  of 
appetite  by  the  toils  of  thought ;  who  bow  and  smile, 
and  always  say  "  yes ; "  whom  an  independent  opinion 
would  frighten,  as  a  ghost  from  the  dead  ;  and  who 
would  as  soon  mount  a  forlorn  hope,  as  venture  on  a 
sturdy  contradiction. 

"  Fiddling  and  fishing  were  his  arts  ;  at  times 
He  altered  sermons,  and  he  aimed  at  rhymes." 


CRABBE.  65i 

Crabbe's  poetry  is  the  tragedy  of  common  life,  and 
in  this  relation  we  must  judge  it.  The  tragic  elements 
are  in  rude  forms  as  well  as  ideal  ones ;  they  are  in 
humble  conditions  as  well  as  in  heroic  situations.  They 
belong  to  human  nature  in  its  essence,  and  the  modes 
in  which  they  show  themselves  are  but  the  accidents  of 
art  or  circumstances.  The  tragic  genius  naturally 
selects  the  sad  and  the  terrible  in  our  nature  ;  most 
poets  have  associated  these  elements  with  exalted  con- 
dition or  extraordinary  events.  Crabbe  has  connected 
them  with  lowly  individuals  and  unromantic  incidents. 
If  we,  therefore,  call  Crabbe  gloomy,  why  should  we 
not  so  designate  every  writer  who  is  purely  tragic  ? 
Does  Crabbe,  in  his  terrible  scenes,  intend  to  give  a 
general  picture  of  common  life  ?  No,  assuredly.  He 
no  more  intends  this,  than  the  writer  of  romantic 
tragedy  intends  his  impersonations  as  the  veracity  of 
history,  or  the  counterparts  of  elevated  rank.  Crabbe, 
most  certainly  would  no  more  imply  that  Peter  Grimes, 
a  vulgar,  but  gloomy  and  atrocious  man,  was  common 
among  fishermen,  than  Massinger  would  have  it  under- 
stood that  Sir  Giles  Overreach  was  a  frequent  character 
among  private  gentlemen.  Peter  Grimes  is  in  essence 
a  tragic  character,  as  well  as  Sir  Giles  Overreach.  In 
what  sense,  then,  is  Crabbe  a  gloomy  writer  in  which 

VOL.   I.  5 


66  LECTURES   AND   ESSAYS. 

Massinger  is  not  also?  Is  it  that  the  personages  of 
Crabbe  are  of  low  or  every-day  existence  ? 

Whether  these  are  proper  subjects  for  tragic  story  is 
a  question  of  criticism,  that  I  cannot  here  discuss,  and 
the  discussion  of  it  is  not  necessary  to  my  subject. 
The  condition  of  the  characteristics  does  not  in  any 
way  affect  the  spirit  which  they  embody.  Admitting 
much  of  nature  in  that  sympathy  with  the  sorrows  of 
those  raised  above  us,  which  we  so  strongly  feel,  I 
think  there  is  also  in  it  somewhat  of  prejudice.  Feel- 
ings more  genuine  and  more  true,  would  teach  us  not 
to  destroy  the  difference  but  to  lessen  it.  Some  persons 
can  feel  for  woe  that  weeps  amidst  gauze  and  gas  light, 
and  faints  most  gracefully  in  a  spangled  robe,  while 
they  will  turn  away  m  disgusted  selfishness  from 
vulgar  want.  Yet  the  record  of  such  want,  the  knowl- 
edge that  such  want  has  being,  ought  more  to  touch 
our  hearts  than  the  genteelest  agony  that  was  ever 
printed  upon  vellum.  Sensibility,  which  is  moral  rather 
than  imaginative,  which  has  its  glow  in  the  affections, 
rather  than  in  the  fancy,  can  approach  rude  suffering 
in  its  coarseness,  and  it  can  bear  it  in  description. 

Crabbe  dispelled  many  illusions  which  the  fiction  and 
falsehood  of  our  literature  had  maintained  in  reference 
to  humble  life.  Nor  was  it  unkindness  to  the  poor,  but 
rather  benevolence,  to  dispel  such   deceptions.     The 


CRABBE.  67 

region  of  laborious  life  was,  to  poets  and  their  patrons, 
an  enchanted  Eden ;  a  fairy  land,  where  some  light 
from  the  golden  age  continued  yet  to  linger;  where 
passions  were  asleep,  where  tastes  were  simple,  and 
where  wants  were  few.  The  bards  sang  sweetly  of 
poverty  with  blessed  content ;  of  innocence  in  rural 
vales,  of  shepherds  that  only  dreamed  of  love,  and 
hinds  that  whistled  as  they  went  for  want  of  thought ; 
of  swains  that  tuned  their  oaten  pipes,  and  maidens 
that  listened  in  rapture  to  the  sound  ;  well  pleased,  the 
wealthy  heard  ;  sure  never  was  lot  so  happy  as  the 
poor  enjoyed  ;  and  while  crime  and  misery  were  at 
their  doors,  they  read  only  of  contented  Louisas  and 
gentle  Damons ;  then  rushed  to  ball  and  banquet  in 
the  bliss  of  ignorance,  and  without  one  pang  of 
charity. 

Crabbe  revealed  other,  matters.  He  showed  that  sin 
and  sorrow,  guilt  and  passion,  were  doing  their  work  at 
the  base  of  society,  as  well  as  on  its  summit ;  he  show- 
ed that  the  heart  had  much  the  same  history  in  all 
conditions.  This,  so  far,  was  novelty  ;  and  surely  the 
novelty  of  truth  is  worth  something,  even  when  it  is 
not  so  pleasant  as  we  might  desire ;  nor  is  that  power 
manifested  in  vain,  which  shows  us  that  the  fearful 
strength  of  human  nature  which  wrecks  a  throne,  may 
spend  as  terrible  a  fury  on  a  cottage  hearth. 


68  LECTURES   AND    ESSAYS. 

As  a  matter  of  taste,  we  may  object  to  the  social 
grade  of  Crabbe's  personages ;  as  matter  of  principle, 
I  see  not  that  we  can.  Neither  can  we  object  to  him 
that  he  connects  them  with  dark  and  destructive  pas- 
sions. The  passions  are  essentially  the  same,  whether 
in  high  life  or  low  ;  and  with  those  which  are  dark  and 
destructive  the  tragic  writer  deals,  whether  he  places 
the  catastrophe  in  palace  or  in  tent.  The  envy  of 
lago,  the  jealousy  of  Othello,  the  ambition  of  Macbeth, 
and  the  cruelty  of  Richard,  are  all  the  same  envy, 
jealousy,  ambition,  and  cruelty  in  so  many  peasants  ; 
and  in  peculiarity  of  circumstances  they  might  be 
equally  as  tragic.  Will  it  be  said,  that  Crabbe  deals 
with  such  passions  exclusively .?  It  is  not  so ;  passages 
of  greater  sweetness,  passages  more  loving,  gentle, 
tender,  beautiful,  than  numbers  to  be  found  in  Crabbe, 
poet  has  seldom  written.  Take,  for  instance,  the  story  of 
Phoebe  Dawson ;  the  sketch  of  the  young  girl  towards 
the  close  of  the  "  Parish  Register,"  and  her  consumptive 
sailor  lover ;  "  The  Parting  Hour,"  and  "  Farmer 
Ellis  ; "  and  if  they  have  not  moral  truth  and  beauty, 
strong  and  devoted  affections,  I  do  not  know  what  can 
be  considered  truth,  beauty,  or  affection. 

Crabbe  is  not  ungentle,  but  he  is  sad.  He  has  not 
the  genial  amplitude  of  Burns,  and  neither  his  consti- 
tution nor    his   circumstances  tended   to    produce  it. 


CRABBE.  69 

Buras,  with  a  rare  affluence  of  soul,  was  trained  among 
an  intelligent,  and,  on  the  whole,  independent  popula- 
tion ;  with  trials,  to  be  sure,  around  them,  that  would 
often  make  them  sad,  but  seldom  the  sordid  wretched- 
ness that  could  see  no  hope.  Daily  there  was  labor  in 
the  field,  and  sometimes  there  was  sorrow  on  the  hearth, 
but  the  cloud  was  not  enduring ;  fun  soon  laughed  at 
care  again,  and  frolic  danced  as  merrily  as  ever. 

Crabbe  in  youth  had  but  little  pleasure  ;  in  London 
he  was  steeped  in  poverty  to  the  very  lips  ;  in  mature 
life  his  professional  position,  in  neighborhoods  abound- 
ing with  destitution,  brought  him  continually  into  contact 
with  the  most  forlorn  ignorance,  and  the  most  hapless 
vice.  He  does  not  often  rise  to  the  raptures  of  enjoy- 
ment, but  he  has  constantly  gleams  of  the  beautiful  in 
human  life  ;  the  fidelities  of  lowly  attachment ;  the 
sensibilities  and  the  grace,  that  nature  gives  to  an  un- 
perverted  woman ;  the  glory  that,  in  the  hardest  fortune, 
crowns  the  brave  and  honest  man. 

I  would  not  say,  however,  that  Crabbe  never  presents 
too  gloomy  an  aspect  of  existence.  His  pictures  of 
poverty,  with  its  attendant  evils,  are  often  certainly  too 
harsh  ;  often  as  partial  as  they  are  discolored  ;  pictures 
which  evince  a  fearful  power  of  causing  pain,  but 
which  afford  no  moral  compensation  for  the  agony  they 
excite.     This  remark  applies  very  extensively  to  most 


70  LECTURES   AND  ESSAYS. 

of  our  poet's  views  of  external  nature.  His  eye  is 
sicklied  with  hues  of  sorrow,  and  his  ear  is  disordered 
with  its  sounds.  The  burden  of  lamentation  intercepts 
from  his  hearing  the  music  of  paradise  ;  the  sun  sets 
with  glory  in  the  heavens,  but  while  he  gazes,  a  mist  of 
tears  ascends  from  earth  to  dim  it ;  the  flower  rejoices 
in  the  desert,  but  man  is  trodden  in  the  crowd ;  the 
stream  is  clear  in  the  solitude,  but  in  habitable  places  it 
is  the  mirror  of  worn  faces  and  blasted  forms.  Our 
poet  wanders  too  much  like  a  haunted  man,  meeting  at 
too  many  turns  a  gaunt  and  remorseless  spectre  of 
crime  and  suffering.  Intervals  of  release  he  has ;  in- 
tervals of  many  genial  thoughts,  when  the  sounds  of 
the  living  word,  if  melancholy,  are  at  least  musical ; 
when  human  goodness  and  human  affections  throw 
their  beauty  on  his  dream,  and  when  the  sympathies  of 
love,  undimmed  by  selfishness,  come  pictured  from  his 
fancy  in  pencillings  of  light. 

As  a  moralist,  Crabbe  is  most  solemn  and  most  im- 
pressive. The  power  of  his  description  is  equalled  only 
by  his  truth  of  principle  and  his  moveless  integrity  of 
purpose.  Never  has  moralist  exhibited  more  terribly 
than  Crabbe  the  maledictions  that  fall  upon  the  guilty. 
Never  has  moralist  exhibited  the  awful  law  of  right  and 
wrong,  in  so  many  and  impressive  forms.  Wherever 
he  places  sin,  there  is  the  reign  of  misery  —  in  the  rural 


CRABBE.  71 

cottage,  in  the  city  garret,  on  the  midnight  ocean,  on 
the  barren  moor.  Wherever  he  gives  us  the  crime,  he 
gives  us  the  retributive  calamity,  that  dogs  it  with  certain 
step,  and  strikes  when  the  clock  of  fate  has  pealed  the 
hour  of  execution.  He  makes  no  compromise  ;  he  flat- 
ters no  sin ;  he  softens  no  sentence  that  it  merits  ;  he 
conceals  no  consequence  of  ruin  that  follows  it ;  he 
confounds  no  distinctions  of  obligation  ;  he  sophisticates 
no  principles  of  action  ;  he  loosens  no  bonds  of  duty  ; 
he  shakes  no  trust  in  virtue  ;  he  wrings  our  hearts,  but 
he  warns  them  ;  and  while  he  moves  us  to  sadness,  he 
moves  us  to  wisdom. 

As  a  satirist,  I  do  not  remember  much  that  I  can 
commend  in  Crabbe.  This  aspect  of  his  poetry  is  to 
me  one  of  complete  repulsion ;  one  of  harshness,  that 
inflicts  pain,  and  does  not  minister  to  correction.  Crabbe 
wanted  the  gaiety  of  heart,  which  enables  the  satirist  to 
please  as  well  as  to  chastise  ;  he  wanted  that  easy  and 
sportive  fancy,  which  adds  grace  even  to  censure  ;  he 
wanted  that  exhilarating  humor,  which  can  prevent 
anger  from  deepening  to  malice  or  contempt,  by  a 
joyous  and  a  humanizing  laugh.  Our  author's  son 
commends  his  satire  ;  but  satire  does  not,  as  I  can  per- 
ceive, suit  either  his  temper  or  his  subjects.  His  temper 
inclined  him  to  the  melancholy  in  our  life  nature ;  his 
manner  is  therefore  so  uniformly  serious,  that  satire,  in 


72  LECTURES   AND  ESSAYS. 

its  levity,  would  sound  from  him  like  laughter  in  a 
church ;  the  gravity  of  satire  is  still  more  inconsistent 
with  his  subjects. 

The  follies  or  the  vices  of  the  poor  call  for  our  pity 
or  our  grief,  but  not  for  our  scorn  or  our  smiles.  In 
his  poem  of  "  The  Borough,"  Crabbe  is  tremendously 
severe  on  players,  and  in  his  lacerating  description  of 
the  poor  strollers  whom  he  satires,  there  is  unquestion- 
able power ;  but  when  power  is  turned  against  the  weak 
and  the  helpless,  every  generous  and  pitying  nature 
rebels  against  tyrannic  genius.  The  most  prosperous 
in  the  theatrical  profession  illustrate  so  strikingly  the 
vicissitude  and  transiency  of  our  human  state,  that  I 
can  connect  them  with  only  sober  associations  ;  the 
unsuccessful,  whose  work  is  hard,  and  whose  pay  is  as 
uncertain  as  it  is  scanty,  I  can  regard  only  with  sad- 
ness and  compassion.  There  is  so  much  of  the  glare 
and  grief  of  life  connected  with  the  stage,  that  it  fills 
me  with  most  solemn  thoughts.  To-day  the  god  and 
goddess  of  the  scene,  stifled  with  crowds,  inflated  with 
applause,  tread  with  ecstasy  a  giddy  and  an  airy  height ; 
that  height  has  been  attained,  often,  through  years  of 
labor,  trials,  fears,  want,  and  suffering ;  now  wealth 
flows  in  upon  them  with  most  ample  measure  ;  plaudits 
hail  their  triumphs,  and  intoxicated  joy  is  theirs  to  suffo- 
cation.    All  these  will  soon  be  gone  and  silent ;  a  brief 


CRABBE.  73 

enthusiasm  will  give  them  to  oblivion,  or  give  them  to 
the  tomb. 

I  heard  the  wonderful  Malibran  in  her  latest  concert. 
I  listened  to  her  dying  song.  She  poured  forth  her 
impassioned  soul,  "  in  linked  sweetness  long  drawn 
out,"  through  all  the  mazes  of  music.  A  glorious 
crowd  was  before  her  of  jewelled  and  joyous  beauty  ; 
light  and  gladness  gave  enchantment  to  the  hour,  and 
thousands  of  excited  hearts  were  raised  to  the  delirium 
of  delight.  At  this  moment,  life  in  her  who  caused  the 
pleasure  was  throbbing  to  its  close.  Encore  upon 
encore  echoed  in  shouts  that  seemed  to  rend  the  ceiling. 
The  poor  singer  came  on,  elated  by  the  cheers ;  sus- 
tained by  wonted  fervor,  her  sinking  form  arose  living 
and  elastic;  her  transcendent  eye  kindled  even  with 
unusual  fire  ;  her  magical  tones  swelled  and  sank,  and 
floated  into  wilder  ecstasy  ;  again  the  building  rang 
with  plaudits  —  they  were  her  triumph  and  her  knell. 
I  might  have  gone  from  this  place  to  the  stage  door  of 
the  next  theatre  ;  and  there  I  might  have  seen  a  weary 
creature,  coming  out  from  her  night's  unnoticed  labor, 
and  she  was  also  going  home  to  die.  No  praise  cheered 
her  spirit ;  no  echoes,  growing  fainter,  lingered  on  her 
ear ;  no  soul  the  next  evening  would  remark  her  ab- 
sence, would  care  for  her  return. 

I  might  have  seen  a  trembling  girl,  such  as  Crabbe, 


74  LECTURES   AND    ESSAYS. 

in  the  section  I  have  mentioned,  describes  with  a  pathos 
that  compensates  for  his  severity  towards  the  other 
members  of  her  company.  I  might  have  seen  this 
trembling  girl,  who,  a  moment  before,  was  blazing  in 
tinsel,  amidst  gas  and  gilding,  stealing  to  her  cold  and 
shabby  lodging  ;  the  paint  washed  from  her  cheek,  and 
leaving  the  pallor  of  consumption  in  its  stead ;  the  mimic 
smile  of  gladness  passed  away,  to  be  succeeded  by  real 
tears  of  nature  ;  tears  that  now  may  flow  in  freedom, 
and  flow  in  silence.  Shame  upon  the  soul,  that  could 
give  her  afflicted  lot  only  a  hard  thought  and  a  hard 
word ;  shame  upon  the  pharisaism,  that  could  discern 
no  motive  in  her  career  but  vanity,  when  charity,  that 
"  thinketh  no  evil,"  might  suggest  impulses  more  wor- 
thy, the  necessities,  perhaps,  of  a  widowed  mother,  or  a 
sickly  father,  or  of  helpless  and  orphaned  brothers  and 
sisters.  Shame  upon  the  unmanly  insolence  that  im- 
pedes her  way  ;  shame  upon  the  unmanly  insult  that 
crimsons  her  cheek;  shame  upon  the  dastardly  sus- 
picion, native  to  the  meanness  of  a  small  soul,  and 
to  the  filth  of  a  corrupted  heart,  that  supposes  the 
unprotected  always  to  be  vicious,  the  poor  to  be  without 
honor,  and  the  weak  to  be  proper  objects  of  foul  in- 
tentions. 

I  have  given  the  character  of  Crabbe's  poetry  with 
all  the  fidelity  of  one  who  has  read  it  with  interest,  and 


CRABBE.  75 

therefore  read  it  with  attention.  Its  special  divisions  I 
will  now  indicate,  but  cannot  analyze.  His  two  earliest 
poems  were,  "  The  Village,"  and  "  The  Library." 
"  The  Village "  has  not  the  sweetness  of  Goldsmith, 
and  "  The  Library  "  has  not  the  learning  of  Parr ;  but 
the  one  gained  him  the  patronage  of  Burke ;  the  other 
was  written  under  his  roof,  and  obtained  his  approba- 
tion. "  The  Village  "  has  power  and  pathos,  but  it  is 
in  stoic  opposition  to  the  Arcadian  poetry  on  villages. 
"  The  Library "  contains  some  quaint  and  amusing 
ideas  on  the  matter,  the  size  and  the  destiny  of  books. 
It  would  surely  be  a  droll  circumstance  to  the  authors 
of  many  folios,  to  arise  from  the  dead  and  behold  the 
nonentities  to  which  they  have  sunk.  How  indignant 
they  must  feel  to  know  that  their  immense  tomes  had 
only  made  small  talk  for  D'Israeli,  and  banter  for 
George  Crabbe. 

"  The  Parish  Register  "  and  "  The  Borough,"  were 
intermediate  publications.  They  contain,  however,  all 
the  essentials  of  Crabbe's  genius,  although  he  modified 
them  afterwards,  by  shaping  them  into  other  poems. 
In  "  The  Tales,"  Crabbe's  power  is  concentrated  and 
intense ;  in  the  "  Tales  of  the  Hall,"  diversified  and 
softened  ;  but  still  we  find  the  same  stoic  description, 
and  the  same  literal  and  inflexible  pathos.  Crabbe's 
pathos  has  an  inveterate  accuracy  throughout ;  you  can 


76  LECTURES   AND   ESSAYS. 

never  call  it  moonshine,  and,  to  escape  its  pain,  you 
must  refuse  to  read.  The  reality  you  cannot  contest. 
"  The  Parish  Register "  is  drawn  from  his  experience 
as  a  clergyman.  It  contains  a  large  amount  of  reflec- 
tion on  the  most  solemn  eras  of  individual  history, 
"  birth,"  "  marriage  "  and  "  death."  Generally,  these 
pictures  are  sad,  but  with  their  sadness  they  have  many 
hues  of  beauty  ;  the  smile  of  infancy  as  well  as  its 
suflTering ;  the  devotedness  of  maternity  as  well  as  its 
anguish ;  the  affection  of  humble  marriage  as  well  as 
its  afflictions  ;  the  peace  of  death  as  well  as  its  fears  ; 
its  triumphs  as  well  as  its  despair. 

The  episode  of  "  Phcebe  Dawson "  in  this  poem, 
has  won  enthusiastic  applause  from  the  critics ;  as  its 
beauty  and  its  pathos  must  have  done,  except  critics 
had  not  hearts.  It  was  one  of  the  last  things  which 
Fox,  that  orator  of  manly  soul,  perused  on  his  dying 
bed.  Crabbe  has  been  singularly  fortunate  in  securing 
the  appreciation  of  great  men.  Burke  ushered  him  to 
notice ;  Fox  read  him  in  his  last  sickness ;  Byron 
regarded  him  with  admiration ;  Scott  revered  him  as  a 
poet  and  a  friend ;  and  in  the  disconsolate  hours  which 
closed  his  mighty  life,  while  able  to  study,  he  perused 
our  poet's  writings  and  the  Bible. 

"  The  Borough "  is  a  poem  of  greater  extent  and 
of  wider  scope.     It  consists  of  those  topics  which  an 


CRABBE.  77 

English  town  affords  ;  and  of  such  materials  as  almost 
only  an  English  town  can  furnish.     Among  the  sub- 
jects in  which  he  shows  the  greatest  force  and  skill,  I 
would  instance,  "  The  Alms  House,"  "  The  Prisons," 
and  "  The  Dwellings  of  the  Poor."     Two  melancholy 
pictures  he  gives  us  in  "  The  Alms  House  ; "  the  poor 
outworn  spendthrift,  strutting  still  in  fragments  of  olden 
finery;  the    antique   beauty,   unable,  through   all   the 
discipline  of  sorrow,  to  forget  her  conquests ;  these  we 
cannot  contemplate  without   emotion.      Much  as  we 
may  despise  folly  that  is  proof  against  all  experience, 
we  cannot  but  feel  for  a  weight  of  affliction  that  is  too 
heavy,  even  for  folly,  to  be  always  absurd.      "  The 
Prison"  and  its  inmates,  are  described  with  especial 
power.     In  the  dream  of  the  condemned  felon  we  have 
a  fine  illustration  of  the  godliness  of  our  nature,  even 
in  its  guilt ;  the  gleams  of  tenderness  that  shoot  across 
the  dreary  wastes  of  sin ;  the  recollection  that  transports 
the  heavy  heart  from  the  starless  darkness  of  its  des- 
pair, to  sunny  mornings  of  its  freshness  and  its  hope. 

Alluding  to  "  The  Dwellings  of  the  Poor,"  I  would 
say  that  this  is  the  special  sphere  in  which  Crabbe  rules 
our  feelings  with  a  wizard  and  vindictive  spell.  In 
moral  pathos,  sometimes  fearful,  sometimes  tender, 
his  genius  here  becomes  terrible  and  august.  He 
leads  us  to  homes  of  indigence,  where  the  senses  are 


78  LECTUEES   AND   ESSAYS. 

gross,  the  passions  mad  ;  where  the  affections  are  base 
or  broken ;  where  the  intellect  made  for  heaven,  is 
buried  in  the  grossness  of  the  brute;  where  appetite 
holds  undivided  despotism ;  where  fancy  sheds  no 
light,  and  faith  no  purity,  and  hope  no  consolation  ; 
where  holiness  has  no  sanctuary,  and  prayer  no  altar, 
and  the  Sabbath  no  sacrifice  ;  where  the  morning  sun 
gilds  no  grateful  offering,  and  the  evening  hears  no 
vesper  praise  ;  where  intemperance  makes  a  fiend  of 
man,  and  cruelty  a  wreck  of  woman ;  where  an  old 
age  of  wretchedness  closes  a  life  of  vice ;  where  the 
weary  spirit  seeks  a  place  to  gasp  its  latest  breath  ;  or 
where  the  forlorn  skeleton  sits  sullen  or  stupefied  on 
the  unwilling  hearth ;  where  beauty  is  turned  to  ashes  ; 
the  gladness  and  the  glory  of  life  departed ;  the  spirit 
broken  and  the  soul  forsaken.  But  it  is  not  all  thus  in 
Crabbe's  writings ;  thank  God,  it  is  not  all  thus,  in  the 
poorest  homes  ;  poverty  has  its  limits  of  suffering,  and 
sin  its  boundary  of  dominion  ;  even  in  the  view  of 
our  unromantic  poet,  humble  homes  have  light  from 
heaven,  that  also  guides  to  heaven ;  sweetness  of 
temper  that  no  anguish  can  destroy ;  a  reverence  and 
love  of  goodness  that  no  temptation  can  corrupt ; 
charities  undimmed  through  years  of  struggle ;  piety 
that  no  woe  can  shake ;  patience,  that,  with  a  blessed 
alchemy,  distils  a   balm  from  the  most  bitter  worm- 


CRABBE.  79 

wood  of  tribulation ;  piety  that  willingly,  and  with 
graceful  word,  bestows  its  mite,  and  sighs  when  it  has 
no  more  to  give. 

I  would  with  very  strong  desire,  illustrate,  by  quota- 
tions, all  I  have  said  of  the  poet  whose  genius  I  have 
undertaken  to  discuss ;  but  time  will  not  allow  it. 

That  Crabbe,  when  he  pleased,  could  rise  far  above 
the  level  of  his  usual  plain  and  tranquil  couplet,  into 
the  boldest  diction  and  the  most  daring  eloquence  of 
the  imagination,  is  evidenced  in  his  tales  of  "  Sir  Eus- 
tace Grey  "  and  "  The  Hall  of  Justice."  In  the  one 
he  treads  through  the  darkest  mazes  of  insanity  ;  in  the 
other  he  fathoms  the  utmost  depths  of  misery  and 
passion.  In  "  Sir  Eustace  Grey,"  after  the  poet  rings 
upon  our  ears  all  the  wildering  changes  of  a  despairing 
insanity,  how  finely  does  he  soften  down  those  terrible 
ravings,  and  close  in  the  sweet  song  of  religious  con- 
fidence and  returning  peace.     Thus  the  patient  sings : 

*'  Pilgrim,  burden 'd  with  thy  sin, 
Come  the  way  to  Zion's  gate, 
There,  till  Mercy  let  thee  in, 
Knock  and  weep,  and  watch  and  wait. 

Knock  !  He  knows  the  sinner's  cry ; 
Weep  !  He  loves  the  mourner's  tears ; 
Watch  I  for  saving  grace  is  nigh  ; 
.  Wait !  till  heavenly  light  appears. 


80  LECTURES   AND   ESSAYS. 

"  Hark !  it  is  the  Bridegroom's  voice ; 
Welcome  Pilgrim  to  thy  rest ; 
Now  within  the  gate  rejoice, 
Safe  and  seal'd,  and  bought  and  bless'd  ! 
Safe —  from  all  the  lures  of  vice, 
Seal'd  —  by  signs  the  chosen  know. 
Bought  —  by  love  and  life  the  price, 
Bless'd  —  the  mighty  debt  to  owe. 

"  Holy  Pilgrim !  what  for  thee 

In  a  world  like  this  remain  ? 

From  thy  guarded  breast  shall  flee, 

Fear  and  shame,  and  doubt  and  pain. 

Fear  —  the  hope  of  Heaven  shall  fly. 
Shame — from  glory's  view  retire, 
Doubt  —  in  certain  rapture  die. 
Pain  —  in  endless  bliss  expire." 

I  will  now  say  a  word  on  the  two  last  series  of  poems, 
which  were  published  in  Mr.  Crabbe's  own  lifetime.  I 
mean  "'xhe  Tales,"  and  "The  Tales  of  the  Hall." 
"  The  Tales  "  are  narrative  dramas  from  familiar  life, 
and  the  most  powerful  of  them  are  those  in  which  the 
author,  true  to  his  genius,  confines  himself  to  tragic 
subjects,  in  which  he  deals  with  the  guilt  and  sorrow  of 
humanity.  On  these  subjects,  the  author  is  always 
potent ;  the  very  sources  of  the  passions  are  open  to 
him ;  he  touches  the  hard  rock  in  the  wilderness  of 


CRABBE.  81 

calamity,  and  at  his  touch,  it  gushes  out  from  its  deep- 
est fountains.  When  he  writes  on  topics  of  sadness, 
his  pen  is  not  merely  dipped  in  tears,  but  in  tears  that 
lie  in  the  innermost  cavities  of  the  heart. 

These  general  remarks  apply  with  equal  truth  to  the 
"  Tales  of  the  Hall,"  for  they  are  similar  in  spirit  to 
the  "  Tales,"  except  only,  that  occasionally  they  soar 
into  aristocratic  life,  losing  force  as  they  aspire,  and 
that  they  have  a  slender  thread  of  connection.  The 
connection  is  merely  this  :  Two  brothers  meet  after 
long  separation  and  various  fortunes  ;  the  elder  rich,  a 
bachelor,  and  retired  to  his  native  village  ;  the  younger, 
a  wanderer,  a  man  of  family,  and  poor.  The  poor 
brother  comes  by  invitation  of  the  rich ;  during  the 
visit  both  tell  stories,  and  these  stories  are  the  "  The 
Tales  of  the  Hall."  The  brothers,  though  of  opposite 
characters,  please  each  other  exceedingly,  and  on 
parting,  the  poor  man  finds  that  his  richer  relative  has 
made  him  independent  for  life. 

Let  me  give  a  brief  illustration  from  each  of  these 
series  of  "  The  Tales."  The  Patron  is  one  of  the  most 
affecting ;  full  of  meaning  and  full  of  feeling.  It  is 
this  tale  which  Sir  Walter  Scott  would  have  his  children 
get  by  heart.  The  son  of  a  humble  man  is  gifted 
by  Heaven  with  genius.  He  writes  verses  and  is  ap- 
plauded.    He   goes  to   college,  and  is   distinguished. 

VOL.    I.  6 


82  LECTURES   AND  ESSAYS. 

He  becomes  ambitious,  and  dreams  as  youthful  poets 
dream  — 

"  Fame  shall  be  mine,  then  wealth  shall  I  possess, 
And  beauty  next  an  ardent  lover  bless ; 
For  me  the  maid  shall  leave  her  nobler  state, 
Happy  to  raise  and  share  her  poet's  fate." 

The  bard  ingratiates  a  young  lord  by  some  satiric 
squibs,  which  gain  the  young  lord  an  election  for  the 
borough ;  the  bard  in  turn  gains  an  invitation  to  his 
lordship's  country  mansion.  The  father's  letter  to  him 
while  there,  is  a  masterpiece  of  sterling  sense,  and 
affectionate  eloquence.  Mark  the  shrewd  insight  of 
one  paragraph :  — 

**  Prudence,  my  boy,  forbids  thee  to  commend 
The  cause  or  party  of  thy  noble  friend  ; 
What  are  his  praises  worth,  who  must  be  known 
To  take  a  patron's  maxims  for  his  own  ? 
When  ladies  sing  or  in  thy  presence  play. 
Do  not,  dear  John,  in  rapture  melt  away  ; 
'T  is  not  thy  part,  there  will  be  list'ners  round, 
To  cry  divine!  and  dote  upon  the  sound  : 
Remember,  too,  that  though  the  poor  have  ears, 
They  take  not  in  the  music  of  the  spheres  : 
They  must  not  feel  the  warble  and  the  thrill. 
Or  be  dissolved  in  ecstasy  at  will : 
Besides,  't  is  freedom  in  a  youth  like  thee 
To  drop  his  awe  and  deal  in  ecstasy." 


CRABBE.  83 

The  father  was  old,  the  son  was  young ;  the  father 
was  a  homely  man,  the  son  was  a  poet ;  and  how  could 
the  young  poet  understand  the  old  and  homely  man  ? 
and  what  is  it  of  joy  or  hope  that  a  young  poet  cannot 
believe  ?     The  lord  had  a  sister,  she  was  beautiful  as 
heaven  and  as  kind.     The  poet,  as  a  matter  of  course, 
loved  her,  and  she  was  not  displeased.     He  thought  of 
no  obstacle  ;  how  could  there  be  ?    He  who  had  climbed 
Parnassus,  and  stolen  fire  from  the  skies,  why  should 
he  not  reach  a  damsel's  heart,  though  that  heart  was 
amidst  the  peerage  ?     Our  poet  wrapped  himself  in  his 
delirious  enchantment ;  alas,  that  the  charm  should  too 
soon  be  broken !     He  forgot  that  ladies  out  of  London 
soon  find  trees  and   fields  but  dull  concerns,  and  are 
grateful  to  any  animal  which  relieves  the  monotony; 
he  forgot  that  fashionable  ladies  will  sometimes  weary 
of  parrots  and  poodles,  and  take  even  a  poet  as  a  sub- 
stitute ;  and,  in  this   ignorance,   the   unhappy  wretch 
misunderstood  the  raptures  of  the  high-born  maiden, 
who  listened  to  his   song  and  seem  delighted  all   the 
while.     The  day  of  departure  arrives  ;  the  carriage  is 
at  the  door  :  — 

**  The  ladies  came  ;  and  John  in  terror  threw 
One  painful  glance,  and  then  his  eyes  withdrew ; 
Not  with  such  speed,  but  he  in  other  eyes 
With  anguish  read,  '  I  pity,  but  despise. 


84  LECTURES   AND   ESSAYS. 

Unhappy  boy  !  presumptuous  scribbler !   you 
To  dream  such  dreams  !  be  sober,  and  adieu.' 

"  Then  came  the  noble  friend  — *  And  will  my  lord 
Vouchsafe  no  comfort  1  drop  no  soothing  word  ? 
Yes,  he  must  speak.'  He  speaks, '  My  good  young  friend, 
You  know  my  views ;  upon  my  care  depend ; 
My  hearty  thanks  to  your  good  father  pay, 
And  be  a  student.     Harry,  drive  away.'  " 

The  miserable  dupe  goes  to  London,  and  cannot  even 
see  his  lordship.  After  dangling  in  his  ante-room,  time 
after  time,  in  all  the  anguish  of  suspense,  instead  of 
promotion  in  the  church,  he  receives,  by  the  hand  of  a 
menial,  a  commission  for  a  low  excise  clerkship.  He 
tries  to  fulfil  its  duties,  but  breaks  down  under  the 
weight  of  despair,  and  is  found  near  his  home,  whither 
he  had  rambled  in  haggard  madness.  He  recovers  his 
reason,  and  dies  calmly  among  his  lamenting  relations. 

"  Meantime  the  news  through  various  channels  spread, 
The  youth  once  favor'd  with  such  praise,  was  dead. 
'  Emma,'  the  lady  cried,  '  my  words  attend, 
Your  syren  smiles  have  kill'd  your  humble  friend  : 
The  hope  you  raised  can  now  delude  no  more. 
Nor  charms,  that  once  inspired,  can  now  restore.' 
Faint  was  the  flush  of  anger  and  of  shame 
That  o'er  the  cheek  of  conscious  beauty  came  : 
'  You  censure  not,'  said  she,  '  the  sun's  bright  rays, 
When  fools  imprudent  dare  the  dangerous  gaze  ; 


CBABBE.  85 

And  should  a  stripling  look  till  he  were  blind, 

You  would  not  justly  call  the  light  unkind  : 

But  is  he  dead  ?  and  am  I  to  suppose 

The  power  of  poison  in  such  looks  as  those  ? ' 

She  spoke,  and,  pointing  to  the  mirror,  cast 

A  pleased,  gay  glance,  and  court'sied  as  she  past. 

"  My  lord,  to  whom  the  poet's  fate  was  told. 
Was  much  affected,  for  a  man  so  cold  ; 
'Dead ! '  said  his  lordship,  '  run  distracted,  mad  ! 
Upon  my  soul  I  'm  sorry  for  the  lad  ; 
And  now,  no  doubt,  th'  obhging  world  will  say 
That  my  harsh  usage  help'd  him  on  his  way  : 
What !  I  suppose,  I  should  have  nurs'd  his  muse, 
And  with  champagne  have  brighten 'd  up  his  views ; 
Then  had  he  made  me  famed  my  whole  life  long, 
And  stunn'd  my  ears  with  gratitude  and  song. 
Still  should  the  father  hear  that  I  regret 
Our  joint  misfortune  —  yes  !  I  '11  not  forget.'  " 

"  The  Lover's  Journey  "  is  one  of  those  gayer  fan- 
cies by  which  Crabbe  but  too  seldom  relieves  the  gloom 
of  his  darker  descriptions  ;  and  yet,  not  less  in  this  than 
in  his  deepest  musings,  does  he  show  himself  the  subtle 
analyst  of  inward  feelings,  the  accurate  observer  of 
outward  objects.  The  story  is  exceedingly  simple.  A 
young  man  upon  a  summer's  day  mounts  his  horse  to 
visit,  at  a  few  miles  distance,  the  lady  of  his  love. 
His  mind  is  elated  with  rejoicing  thoughts,  wrapt  in 


8b  LECTURES    AND   ESSAYS. 

gladsome  expectation ;  every  thing  he  sees  is  bright 
and  fair,  all  that  he  hears  is  music.  In  the  first  part  of 
his  journey  he  passes  through  heat  and  dust,  over 
unsheltered  moss  and  moor,  but  instead  of  crying  "  all 
is  barren,"  he  finds  that  all  is  beautiful.  Arriving  at 
the  residence  of  his  mistress,  instead  of  herself,  there 
is  a  message,  that  she  has  gone  some  miles  to  visit  a 
friend,  and  asking  him  to  follow  her.  Chagrined  and 
disappointed  he  sets  out  again,  and  then,  though  his 
way  lies  amidst  the  loveliest  landscapes,  he  can  see 
nothing  to  admire.  At  last  he  meets  her,  and  then 
returning  home  with  her,  he  takes  no  notice  whatever 
of  external  objects,  for  his  mind  is  too  full  of  internal 
satisfaction,  to  be  excited  at  all  through  the  senses. 
The  painting  in  this  poem,  and  the  philosophy,  is 
each  in  its  way  admirable.  Observe  what  charms 
our  lover  can  discern  in  a  bog  during  his  first  ex- 
perience. 

"  *  Various  as  beauteous,  Nature,  is  thy  face,' 
Exclaim'd  Orlando :  '  all  that  grows  has  grace, 
All  are  appropriate  ;  bog,  and  marsh,  and  fen, 
Are  only  poor  to  undiscerning  men  ; 
Here  may  the  nice  and  curious  eye  explore 
How  Nature's  hand  adorns  the  rushy  moor  ; 
Here  the  rare  moss  in  secret  shade  is  found, 
Here  the  sweet  myrtle  of  the  shaking  ground  ; 


CRABBE.  87 

Beauties  are  these  that  from  the  view  retire, 
But  well  repay  th'  attention  they  require  ; 
For  these  my  Laura  will  her  home  forsake, 
And  all  the  pleasures  they  afford  partake.'  " 

Note  what  eye-sores  he  discovers  in  ^the  fairest  and 
richest  scenes  during  the  course  of  his  second  expe- 
rience. 

"  Forth  rode  Orlando  by  a  river's  side. 
Inland  and  winding,  smooth,  and  full,  and  wide, 
That  roll'd  majestic  on,  in  one  soft  flowing  tide  ; 
The  bottom  gravel,  flowery  were  the  banks. 
Tall  willows,  waving  in  their  broken  ranks. 
The  road,  now  near,  now  distant,  winding  led 
By  lovely  meadows  which  the  waters  fed  ; 
He  passed  the  wayside  inn,  the  village  spire,     ' 
Nor  stopp'd  to  gaze,  to  question  or  admire  ; 
On  either  side  the  rural  mansions  stood, 
With  hedge-row  trees,  and  hills  high-crown'd  with  wood, 
And  many  a  devious  stream  that  reach'd  the  nobler  flood. 

"  '  1  hate  these  scenes,'  Orlando  angry  cried, 
*  And  these  proud  farmers  !  yes,  I  hate  their  pride : 
See !  that  sleek  fellow,  how  he  strides  along, 
Strong  as  an  ox,  and  ignorant  as  strong  ; 
Can  yon  close  crops  a  single  eye  detain 
But  his  who  counts  the  profits  of  the  grain  ? 
And  these  vile  beans  with  deleterious  smell, 
Where  is  their  beauty  ?    Can  a  mortal  tell? 


88  LECTURES   AND   ESSAYS. 

These  deep  fat  meadows  I  detest ;  it  shocks 

One's  feelings  there  to  see  the  grazing  ox  ; 

For  slaughter  fatted,  as  a  lady's  smile 

Rejoices  man,  and  means  his  death  the  while. 

Lo  !  now  the  sons  of  labor !  every  day 

Employ'd  in  toil,  and  vex'd  in  every  way  ; 

Theirs  is  but  mirth  assum'd,  and  they  conceal, 

In  their  affected  joys,  the  ills  they  feel : 

I  hate  these  long  green  lanes ;  there  's  nothing  seen 

In  this  vile  country  but  eternal  green  ; 

Woods !  waters  !  meadows !  will  they  never  end  ? 

'T  is  a  vile  prospect.     Gone  to  see  a  friend ! '  " 

The  story  of  the  sisters  from  the  "  Tales  of  the  Hall," 
is  told  with  peculiar  tenderness  ;  a  softened  pathos 
marks  the  incidents,  and  a  lyric  melancholy  pervades 
the  language.  Two  sisters,  of  contrasted  characters, 
are  attached  with  an  affection  rendered  stronger  by  this 
opposition  of  tempers.  The  one  is  an  enthusiastic 
dreamer,  the  other  a  meek  and  simple  spirit.  They 
are  orphans.  Each  has  a  lover,  and  each  believes  her 
own  as  constant  as  the  sun.  Robbed  by  a  scheming 
banker  of  their  humble  patrimony,  they  are  deserted 
by  their  swains.  Reduced  from  competence  to  poverty, 
they  have  nothing  to  sustain  them  but  hard  work  and 
pious  resignation.  The  gentler  maiden  bears  the  storm 
in  the  strength  of  meekness,  but  the  poor  enthusiast 


CRABBE.  89 

falls  under  the  wreck  of  her  hopes.  Her  reason  fails, 
and  thus,  while  waiting  for  death,  she  raves  most  elo- 
quent music. 

*'  Let  me  not  have  this  gloomy  view 

About  my  room,  around  my  bed ; 
But  morning  roses  wet  with  dew, 

To  cool  my  burning  brows  instead. 
As  flowers  that  once  in  Eden  grew. 

Let  them  their  fragrant  spirit  shed  ; 
And  every  day  the  sweets  renew, 

Till  I,  a  fading  flower,  am  dead. 

"  Oh  let  the  herbs  I  loved  to  rear 

Give  to  my  sense  their  perfum'd  breath ; 
Let  them  be  placed  above  my  bier. 

And  grace  the  gloomy  house  of  death. 
I  '11  have  my  grave  beneath  a  hill. 

Where  only  Lucy's  self  shall  know  ; 
Where  runs  the  pure,  pellucid  rill. 

Upon  the  gravelly  bed  below  : 

"  There  violets  on  the  borders  blow. 
And  insects  their  soft  light  display ; 
Till,  as  the  morning  sunbeams  glow. 
The  cold  phosphoric  fires  decay. 

**  That  is  the  grave  to  Lucy  shown, 
The  soil  a  pure  and  silver  sand, 
The  green,  cold  moss,  above  it  grown, 
Unpluck'd  by  all  but  maiden-hand : 


90  LECTURES   AND   ESSAYS. 

In  virgin-earth,  till  then  unturned, 
There  let  my  maiden  form  be  laid ; 

Nor  let  my  changed  clay  be  spurned, 
Nor  for  new  guest  that  bed  be  made. 

*'  There  will  the  lark,  the  lamb  in  sport 

In  air,  on  earth,  securely  play ; 
And  Lucy  to  my  grave  resort. 

As  innocent,  but  not  so  gay. 
I  will  not  have  the  church-yard  ground, 

With  bones  all  black  and  ugly  grown, 
To  press  my  shivering  body  round, 

Or,  on  my  wasted  limbs,  be  thrown. 


*'  Say  not  it  is  beneath  my  care  ; 
I  cannot  these  cold  truths  allow  : 
^  These  thoughts  may  not  afflict  me  there. 

But,  Oh  !  they  vex  and  tease  me  now. 
Raise  not  a  turf,  nor  set  a  stone, 

That  man  a  maiden's  grave  may  trace ; 
But  thou,  my  Lucy,  come  alone. 
And  let  affection  find  the  place." 

Our  theme  has  been  serious,  but  not,  I  trust,  un- 
pleasant. We  have  discoursed  of  the  human  heart  and 
the  human  life.  How  mighty  is  this  human  heart,  with 
all  its  complicated  energies ;  this  living  source  of  all 
that  moves  the  world  I    Who  would  not  have  it  ?    Who 


CHABBE.  91 

would  not  have  it,  even  despite  of  its  wanderings  and 
mistakes  ;  with  all  its  sins,  its  sorrows,  and  its  wrongs  ; 
yes,  who  would  not  have  it  still  ?  With  its  grief  as 
well  as  ecstasy,  its  anguish  as  well  as  exultation ;  who 
would  not  have  this  full  and  mighty  human  heart,  this 
treasury  of  noble  impulses,  so  aspiring,  so  sublime ! 
this  temple  of  liberty,  this  kingdom  of  heaven,  this 
altar  of  God,  this  throne  of  goodness,  so  beautiful  in 
holiness,  so  generous  in  love  !  Who  would  not  have 
it  in  freedom,  ay,  in  the  delirium  of  freedom,  rather 
than  in  the  slavery  of  an  iron  necessity,  or  the  apathy 
of  a  stupid  instinct  ?  How  mysterious  is  this  human 
life,  with  all  its  diversities  of  contrast  and  compensa- 
tion ;  this  web  of  checkered  destinies,  this  sphere  of 
manifold  allotment,  where  man  lives  in  his  greatness 
and  grossness,  a  little  lower  than  the  angels,  a  little 
higher  than  the  brutes;  where  death  walks  hand  in 
hand  with  life,  and  sin  with  sanctity,  and  agony  with 
delight ;  where  the  procession  of  the  burial  mingles 
with  that  of  the  bridal,  and  the  gaspings  of  despair 
pierce  through  the  wild  choruses  of  revelry ;  where  the 
castle  overlooks  the  hut,  and  the  palace  fronts  the 
prison  ;  and  the  throne  is  raised  over  the  hollow  of  the 
dungeon  ;  and  one  man  commands  a  world,  and  another 
pines  away  existence  within  the  circumference  of  his 
chain  ;  yet  where  all  have  substantial  pleasures,  and 


^2  LECTURES   AND   ESSAYS. 

substantial  pains,  which  no  condition  can  entirely  de- 
stroy, pleasures  which  the  most  wretched  cannot  lose, 
pains  which  the  most  favored  must  endure.  We  have 
in  this  imperfect  scene  but  a  fragment  of  our  story ;  its 
opening  is  here,  its  issues  in  eternity :  the  hour  ap- 
proaches when  the  secrets  of  every  heart  shall  be 
opened,  and  the  mystery  of  every  life  be  made  known ; 
till  then,  the  wisdom  of  the  heart  is  faith,  and  the 
majesty  of  the  life  is  virtue. 


THE    MORAL   PHILOSOPHY 


BYRON'S    LIFE. 


To  select  for  a  popular  discourse,  a  topic  on  which 
so  much  has  been  written,  and  written  finely,  may  seem 
an  undertaking  of  considerable  presumption.  But  a 
theme  so  full  of  moral  import  is  not  readily  exhausted  ; 
and  an  individual  impression,  however  humble,  may  not, 
even  on  this  subject,  be  without  its  value  and  its  place. 
And  now  that  the  spell  of  the  poet's  presence  does  not 
enthral  us,  we  are  in  a  position  to  form  an  impartial 
opinion,  and  have  the  permission  to  express  it.  This  was 
scarcely  the  case  before.  Prejudices  in  favor  of  Byron 
or  against  him,  with  which  we  have  no  concern,  ope- 
rated on  his  cotemporaries  ;  and  the  enthusiasm  which, 
while  his  thrilling  tones  were  fresh  in  men's  hearing, 
blunted  the  moral  sense  and  silenced  the  moral  judg- 
ment, has  long  become  sobered.     Admired  for  the 


94  LECTURES    AND  ESSAYS. 

splendor  of  his  genius,  and  feared  for  its  power,  the 
stammer  of  his  censors  was  unnoted  in  a  tempest  of 
applause  ;  his  vices  were  lost  in  the  lustre  of  his  fame, 
and  his  morbid  passions  secured  a  morbid  sympathy. 
The  fever  which  his  poetry  then  inspired,  compelled 
multitudes  to  think  lightly  of  his  sins  ;  now,  that  multi- 
tudes, in  their  coldness,  revert  to  his  transgressions,  the 
reaction  seems  to  turn  against  his  poetry.  Both  the 
moral  and  the  critical  antithesis,  in  each  case,  has  an 
element  of  error.  I  shall  try  to  give  my  own  convic- 
tions with  simplicity.  I  have  arrived  at  them  through 
no  unfriendly  prepossessions  ;  and  if  my  tendency 
would  lead  me  in  any  degree  from  strictness,  it  would 
be  much  to  extenuate,  but  naught  set  down  in  malice. 

For  order,  though  not  for  information,  it  will  be 
needful  to  trace  a  rapid  outline  of  the  life,  which  forms 
a  text  for  the  reflections  that  follow. 

Byron  was  born  in  London  in  1788,  and  with  some 
faint  prospect  of  a  peerage.  His  father's  profligacy 
had  left  him  but  small  means  of  a  gentlemanly  compe- 
tence. His  childhood  was  spent  in  the  north  of  Scot- 
land, where  his  wayward  mother  supported  herself  and 
him  in  economical  decency.  Opportunely  for  Byron, 
the  heir  who  stood  between  him  and  fortune  died,  and 
a  coronet  fell  upon  his  boyish  head.  Byron  was  not 
insensible  to  the  distinction.     The  morning  after  his 


THE  MORAL  PHILOSOPHY  OF  BYROn's  LIFE.  95 

recognition  as  a  lord,  when  his  name  in  the  class  re- 
ceived the  addition  of  "  Dominus,'*^  unable  to  reply 
^^Ad  sum,'''*  he  burst  into  tears.  Even  in  boyhood, 
Byron  never  forgot  his  rank,  and  there  were  occasions 
when  he  did  not  remember  it  with  the  kindest  grace. 
His  reply  to  his  teacher.  Dr.  Butler,  in  refusing,  out  of 
pique,  his  invitation  to  dinner,  is  an  instance  of  haughty 
discourtesy.  His  refusal  and  reason  are  equal  in  rude- 
ness. He  coolly  rejected  the  request ;  and  when  it  was 
inquired  why  ?  "  Because,  Dr.  Butler,  if  you  should 
happen  to  come  into  my  neighborhood,  when  I  was 
staying  at  Newstead,  I  certainly  should  not  ask  you  to 
dine  with  me,  and  therefore  I  feel  that  I  ought  not  to 
dine  with  you^  Nor  is  this  aristocratic  temper,  less 
apparent  in  youthful  moods,  more  gracious.  Address- 
ing lines  to  a  humble  favorite  of  his  own  age,  he  shows 
the  consciousness  of  their  respective  ranks  in  the  open- 
ing words : 

"  Let  folly  smile  to  view  the  names 
Of  thee  and  me  in  friendship  joined." 

Thus  marking  a  distinction  which  a  boy  of  spontaneous 
and  simple  character  would  scarcely  have  thought 
about,  and  to  whom  it  would  have  presented  no  occa- 
sion for  the  smiles  of  folly  or  of  wisdom. 

Later  in  life  Byron  would  know  that  there  was  no 
real  friendship  in  this  juvenile  companionship.     Such 


9$  LECTURES   AND   ESSAYS. 

condescension  and  concession,  with  such  direct  an- 
nouncement of  condescension  and  concession,  has  no 
accordance  with  genuine  friendship.  Friendship,  like 
love,  is  self-forgetful.  The  only  inequality  it  knows  is 
one  that  exalts  the  object,  and  humbles  self.  The 
object  is  so  thoroughly  precious,  so  enriched  to  the 
imagination,  and  so  endeared  to  the  heart,  that,  in  its 
supreme  worth,  all  else  is  forgotten,  and  all  else  is  lost. 
It  may  be  doubted  whether  Byron,  throughout  his  life, 
ever  had  for  any  of  his  own  sex  such  friendship,  or  for 
any  of  the  other  ever  had  such  love.  One  friend  he 
confesses  to  have  had,  but  that  one  was  not  of  the 
human  family.  This  friend  was  his  dog  Boatswain,  to 
whose  remains  he  gave  a  monument. 

"  To  mark  a  friend's  remains,  these  stones  arise  ; 
I  never  knew  but  one,  and  here  he  lies." 

If  this  is  a  poetical  exaggeration,  the  cynicism  of 
impassioned  youth,  the  confession  of  his  maturity  in 
sober  prose,  does  not  fall  far  short  of  it.  As  to  friend- 
ship, he  says  it  is  a  propensity  in  which  my  genius  is 
very  limited.  I  do  not  know  the  small  human  being, 
except  Lord  Clare,  the  friend  of  my  infancy,  for  whom 
I  feel  any  thing  that  deserves  the  name  ;  all  my  others 
are  men-of-the-world  friendships.  I  did  not  even  feel 
it  for  Shelley,  however  much  I  admired  and  esteemed 


97 


him ;  so  that  not  even  vanity  could  bribe  me  into  it ;  for 
of  all  men,  Shelley  thought  highest  of  my  talents,  and 
perhaps  of  my  disposition." 

The  school-boy  days  were  lonely  and  unprotected. 
Without  guardianship  or  control,  he  was  thrown  upon 
his  own  impulses  ;  and  if  these  impulses  were  brave 
and  generous,  they  were  also  wild  and  reckless.  A 
melancholy  reflection  is  that,  with  which  he  refers  to 
the  commencement  of  his  college  life.  "  From  that 
moment,"  he  says,  "  I  began  to  grow  old  in  my  own 
esteem,  and  in  my  esteem  age  is  not  estimable.  I  took 
my  gradation  in  the  vices  with  great  promptitude  ;  but 
they  were  not  to  my  taste,  for  my  early  passions,  though 
violent  in  the  extreme,  were  concentrative,  and  hated 
division  and  spreading  abroad.  I  could  have  left  or  lost 
the  whole  world  with  or  for  that  which  I  loved ;  but, 
though  my  temperament  was  naturally  burning,  I  could 
not  share  in  the  commonplace  libertinism  of  the  place 
and  time  without  disgust.  And  yet  this  very  dis- 
gust, and  my  heart  thrown  back  upon  itself,  threw 
me  into  excesses  perhaps  more,  fatal  than  those  from 
which  I  shrank." 

Byron  came  forth  from  college  with  no  lofty  scholar- 
ship, but  with  a  world  of  undeveloped  genius.  He  then 
commenced  his  manhood's  life  in  literary  combat  and 
pecuniary  embarrassment.     His  volume  of  "Juvenile 

VOL.   I.  7 


98  LECTURES   AND    ESSAYS. 

Sentiriidntalism  "  was  baptized  by  the  Edinburgh  Re- 
view in  those  waters  of  bitterness,  which  were  never 
intended  for  the  literary  salvation  of  the  bantlings  on 
which  they  were  poured.  If  the  feeble  offspring  shiv- 
ered under  the  ablution,  the  youthful  father  did  not 
share  its  weakness.  In  plain  words,  he  chastised  his 
chastisers  ;  but  the  strokes  which  they  gave  "  with 
whips,  he  returned  with  scorpions."  To  the  battle  of 
criticism,  he  joined  the  perplexities  of  excess.  Byron's 
fortune,  small  at  any  time  for  his  station,  was  nothing 
for  his  desires.  Newstead  beheld  a  new  order  of  bro- 
therhood, in  which  sensual  orgies  took  place  of  spiritual 
vespers  ;  in  which  bacchanalian  chaunts  answered  to 
religious  psalmody  ;  in  which  young  rakes,  garmented 
as  old  monks,  crowned  the  mysteries  of  debauch  by 
quaffing  Burgundy  from  a  human  skull.  The  soul 
which  seeks  all  its  revenue  of  pleasure  from  the  senses, 
quickly  leaves  them  bankrupt ;  and  senses  taxed  as 
Byron  taxed  them,  were  not  long  in  reaching  pauperism. 
Satiated  and  disgusted,  he  then  turned  to  travel  for 
change  of  scene  and  change  of  passion.  In  the  sunny 
lands  of  Spain  and  Greece  he  found  wherewith  to  feed 
his  restless  cravings,  to  meet  his  longings  for  intense 
emotion,  and  to  gratify  his  wishes  for  the  wild  and  the 
beautiful.  Greece  especially,  with  its  fair  skies,  its 
ideal  past  and  its  broken  present ;   its  majesty  in  frag- 


THE  MORAL  PHILOSOPHY  OF  BYRON's  LIFE.  99 

ments,  but  in  fragments  that  reflected  lingering  beams 
of  its  primitive  splendor ;  Greece,  thus  dishevelled  but 
lovely  in  her  rags,  was  congenial,  in  all  respects,  to  his 
musing  and  despondent  thoughts. 

Returned  from  this  vagrant  tour  to  his  native  land, 
he  had  scarcely  a  friend  to  meet  him  on  its  shores.  His 
mother,  whom  habit,  notwithstanding  her  coarseness 
and  caprice,  had  rendered  dear  to  him,  had  died  soon 
after  his  arrival.  "  At  three  and  twenty,"  he  says, 
"  I  am  left  alone,  and  what  more  can  I  be  at  seventy  .? 
It  is  true,  I  am  young  enough  to  begin  again  ;  but  with 
whom  can  I  retrace  the  laughing  part  of  life  }  "  Alas, 
that  three  and  twenty,  a  gifted  man,  should  feel  that  he 
had  past  the  laughing  part  of  life  !  But  from  this  his 
first  exile  he  brought  "  Hints  from  Horace,"  which  may 
count  as  nothing,  and  two  cantos  of  the  magnificent 
"  Childe  Harold,"  which  count  for  precious  treasure. 
Two  or  three  days  before  the  publication  of  Childe  Ha- 
rold, he  spake  for  the  first  time  in  the  House  of  Lords, 
and  was  proud  of  his  success.  His  speech  evinced  a 
love  of  liberty  and  a  sympathy  for  the  poor,  but  it  was 
defective  in  political  knowledge,  and  wanted  the  range 
and  depth  of  a  masterly  production.  Childe  Harold 
appeared,  and  the  twinkle  of  his  maiden  declamation 
was  lost  in  the  blaze  of  its  glory.  "  I  awoke  one  morn- 
ing," he  says,  "  and  found  myself  famous."  From  that 


100  LECTURES  AND  ESSAYS. 

morning  his  destiny  was  revealed ;  and  his  destiny  was 
poetry. 

Byron  burst  rapidly,  not  only  into  glory,  but  into 
fashion.  Still,  he  was  in  extremity.  He  wanted  posi- 
tion, and  he  wanted  money.  His  friends  advised  him  to 
marry,  and  marriage  of  the  right  sort,  they  said,  would 
insure  him  both.  But  whom  was  he  to  marry  ?  "  Miss 
Milbanks,"  says  the  bard.  "  By  no  means,"  objects  his 
confidant ;  "  Miss  Milbanks  would  not  suit  him.  She 
was  a  learned  lady,  and  at  the  time  had  no  fortune." 
The  confidant,  meanwhile,  writes  a  proposal  to  another 
lady.  The  proposal  is  refused.  "  You  see,"  says 
Byron,  "  Miss  Milbanks  is  the  person.  I  will  write  to 
her."  The  loving  epistle  was  written ;  the  objecting 
friend  was  softened  in  perusing  it.  "  Well,  really,"  quoth 
the  friend,  "  it  is  a  very  pretty  letter ;  it  is  a  pity  it 
should  not  go.  I  never  read  a  prettier  one."  "  Then  it 
shall  go,"  said  Lord  Byron.  So  it  did  go,  and  Miss  Mil- 
banks  consented  to  become  Lady  Byron.  Then  came  the 
poet's  murmuring  at  the  bustle  which  the  nuptials  must 
occasion,  and  at  the  annoyance  of  wearing  a  blue  coat 
when  he  preferred  a  black  one.  Anxious  about  many 
things,  he  forgot  his  bride,  even  at  the  altar,  and  when 
the  ceremony  was  over,  addresses  her  as  Miss  Milbanks. 

Love  there  was  not  on  either  side  ;  but  there  was 
something  worse  than  the  want  of  it  on  Byron's.     If 


THE  MORAL  PHILOSOPHY  OF  BYR{)Nf g". ^jlJE. ,  .     101  ' 

passion  and  eccentricity  excuse  niaHy-bfl.bis;  emjrs, 
this  error  has  no  such  apology.  It  was  an  act  of  delib- 
erate coolness,  an  act  of  remorseless  indifference,  in 
which  the  happiness  of  a  human  heart  was  staked  upon 
chance,  and  jeopardized  with  banter.  The  rejected  of 
one  offer,  Byron  yet  made  another,  and,  if  we  are  to 
believe  his  own  avowal,  this  repeated  offer  arose  out  of 
no  change  from  his  original  sentiments.  It  was  made, 
too,  in  a  spirit  reckless  of  consequences,  that  must  fall 
heaviest,  if  evil,  on  the  weaker  party,  in  a  spirit  of 
burlesque  and  levity,  that  seemed  alike  devoid  of  ten- 
derness and  respect. 

The  separation,  therefore,  of  Lord  and  Lady  Byron 
was  no  mysterious  matter,  notwithstanding  all  that  has 
been  said  about  its  mystery.  It  was  a  very  simple  and 
a  very  obvious  consequence  of  such  a  union  ;  a  result 
in  perfect  accordance  with  the  laws  of  human  nature, 
however  concealed  may  lie  the  preliminary  incidents. 
Lord  Byron  was  subjected  to  no  common  odium,  on  the 
one  hand  ;  on  the  other,  he  was  indemnified  by  no 
common  sympathy.  That  the  poet  deeply  suffered, 
we  must  believe,  if  we  credit  not  his  words  alone, 
but  his  mere  humanity.  That  the  lady  had  her  anguish, 
too,  we  can  as  little  doubt ;  but  the  poet  could  give 
his  sorrow  charmed  sounds,  that  strongly  moved  the 
world  from  blame  to  pity.     The  lady  chose  the  course 


102         ,    il  ^.rj  ."^   LECTURES   AND    ESSAYS. 

Wlfi^  jdigftity  ^ad   her  sex   defined,  retirement   and 
silence. 

The  poet,  it  has  been  said,  was  enthusiastic  and 
ardent ;  the  lady,  orderly  and  cold.  The  merits  or  the 
faults  of  either  cannot  be  apportioned  here,  nor  the  dis- 
pute of  his  or  her  defenders  settled,  in  reference  to  the 
separation ;  but,  subsequent  to  that  event,  impartial 
judges  would,  I  think,  award  the  lady  the  praise  of 
heroism  as  well  as  the  praise  of  virtue.  The  widow, 
made  already  in  the  youthful  wife,  concealed  her  tears 
and  suppressed  her  sighs  ;  the  maiden's  hopes  and  the 
matron's  pride  blasted  in  a  day,  provoked  no  harsh 
complaint ;  and  when  the  household  sanctuary,  which 
every  woman  consecrates  with  the  brightest  and  choicest 
dreamings  of  her  heart,  became  a  solitude,  it  retained 
its  holiness,  if  it  lost  its  gladness.  The  poet  sought 
relief  in  wild  excess  and  bolder  power ;  the  lady  had 
chosen  a  separate  path,  and  in  quietness  she  walked  it. 
But  yet,  her  way  of  life  was  not  inactive  ;  many  works 
of  mercy  had  her  care  ;  the  poor,  and  the  lowly,  and 
the  ignorant,  had  her  sympathy  ;  the  sentiments  of  the 
good  shared  her  appreciation  and  communion  ;  the 
efforts  to  relieve  and  raise  afflicted  man  obtained,  with- 
out request,  her  blessing  and  her  aid.  Poetic  fire  may 
dazzle  with  intenser  beams  than  the  light  of  virtue ;  but 
it  is  this  light  that  falls  benignly  on  the  obscurity  of  the 


THE  MORAL  PHILOSOPHY  OF  BYRON's  LIFE.         103 

wretched,  which  the  glow  of  poetry  never  warms.  It 
is  this  light  that  gilds  an  immortal's  crown,  when  death 
turns  the  fairest  bays  to  dust. 

Byron,  from  the  period  of  disunion,  kept  no  terms 
with  society  or  with  his  constitution.  His  second  exile 
was  a  moral  outlawry.  His  life  at  Venice  was  a  prodi- 
gality of  profligacy.  He  wallowed  to  the  lips  in  evil. 
He  cast  all  sentiment  to  the  winds,  and  drank  the  cup 
of  sensualism  to  the  dregs.  It  has  been  said,  that  he 
made  his  residence  a  harem,  but  harem  is  a  term 
that  means  propriety  itself,  compared  with  Byron's 
residence  at  Venice.  The  portion  of  his  days  and 
nights,  not  squandered  among  shameless  associates, 
was  devoted  to  Don  Juan.  Bewildered,  exhausted,  de- 
jected, disgusted,  he  formed  at  last  a  union,  in  which 
the  evil  of  guilt  may  have  been  as  great,  but  the  form 
of  it  was  less  vile.  The  Marquis  of  Guiccioli  lost  a 
wife  ;  Byron  gained  a  companion ;  and  this  was  re- 
garded by  certain  of  his  friends  as  a  happy  connection, 
a  most  auspicious  return  to  propriety.  But  life  had  no 
more  to  give  him.  The  pungency  of  pleasure  is  tran- 
sient as  the  foam  that  mantles  round  its  brimming  cup, 
but  Byron  had  long  since  reached  the  sediment.  Power 
had  become  habit,  applause  as  vapid  as  an  oft-repeated 
tune  ;  fame  and  glory  could  charm  no  more,  for  the 
heart  was  cold,  and  the  ear  was  dull.    Ambition  was 


104  LECTURES  AND  ESSAYS. 

lost  in  familiar  sway  ;  desire  was  reft  of  zest  or  fresh- 
ness ;  love,  in  its  triumph  or  its  sadness,  in  expectance 
or  dependence,  was  extinct ;  in  this  prostrate  apathy, 
in  this  drear^  and  bleak  satiety,  one  source  of  excite- 
ment more  remained  in  arms,  in  arms  directed  against 
oppression  in  the  cause  of  the  patriotic  brave.  In  this 
impulse  he  turned  his  face  again  to  Greece  ;  but  it  was 
too  late  for  trophies  or  for  fight,  and  Greece  gave  him 
a  death-bed. 

Already  in  the  prime  of  years,  when  the  mighty 
strain  of  his  choral  song  was  vibrating  through  the 
world,  already  the  garden  of  life  had  become  a  desert, 
without  a  flower  and  without  a  stream  ;  the  sun  had 
passed  from  his  sky,  scarcely  was  a  star  in  the  gloomy 
void  of  being  ;  exiled  and  alone,  amidst  savage  clamor 
and  foreign  hordes,  he  closed  his  course  on  earth  in 
grief  and  darkness.  "  Poor  Greece,"  he  murmured, 
"  poor  town,  my  poor  servants !  Why  was  I  not  aware 
of  this  sooner  !  My  hour  is  come !  I  do  not  care  for 
death,  but  why  did  I  not  go  home,  before  I  came  here  ? 
There  are  things  which  make  the  world  dear  to  me  ; 
for  the  rest,  I  am  content  to  die  !  "  On  the  evening  of 
April  18,  1824,  Byron  said,  I  shall  now  go  to  sleep ; 
he  turned  round,  and  slumbered  soundly ;  once  again 
on  the  next  day  he  opened  his  eyes,  immediately  he 
closed  them ;  the  physician  felt  his  pulse,  it  had  ceased 
to  beat  for  ever. 


THE  MORAL  PHILOSOPHY  OF  BYRON's  LIFE.        105 

All  was  silent  in  that  palace  lately  so  royally  tenant- 
ed ;  "  the  chambers  of  imagery "  were  empty  ;  the 
music  in  its  halls  was  still ;  its  harps  were  broken,  and 
its  bells  had  thrown  their  last  vibration  upon  the  winds 
of  time.  How  true  is  human  nature  at  last  to  all  its 
instincts,  and  to  all  its  affections.  In  the  solemn  hour 
which  delivers  the  soul  from  illusive  vanities  to  its 
primitive  emotions,  Byron  cast  away  his  petulance  and 
his  scorn ;  and  Byron,  as  the  humblest  of  his  species, 
clung  to  simple  feelings,  and  native  memories.  Where 
he  was  born,  there  he  would  die  ;  where  he  had  his 
home,  there  he  would  find  his  grave. 

Many  and  impressive  are  the  aspects  of  this  eventful 
history :  each  mind,  according  to  its  peculiar  associ- 
ations, will  have  its  own  mode  of  viewing  it.  I  shall 
select  but  two  obvious  positions,  as  simple  in  statement 
as  they  are  evident  in  fact.  Byron,  with  most  rare  en- 
dowments, was  wretched  :  this  is  one.  Byron,  with 
great  moral  delinquency,  was  an  object  of  peculiar 
interest :  this  is  the  other.  In  considering  these  two 
positions,  with  their  causes  and  connections,  the  moral 
philosophy  of  Byron's  life,  as  I  apprehend  it,  will  ap- 
pear in  natural  and  progressive  development. 

Byron,  with  most  rare  endowments,  was  wretched. 
I  assume  this  as  an  admitted  fact.  Let  us  then  proceed 
to  examine  and  analyze  its  import. 


106  LECTURES  AND  ESSAYS. 

A  radical  evil  in  Byron's  life  was  the  absorbing 
consciousness  of  self.  Existence  can  never  appear  in 
its  true  relations  considered  from  the  point  of  self ;  nor 
can  the  actions  or  events  that  make  its  sum,  be  from 
this  point  rightly  interpreted,  or  rightly  directed.  A 
life,  therefore,  in  which  self  is  an  absorbing  principle, 
is  a  confusion,  a  thing  of  mistakes  and  dislocations, 
wrong  respecting  itself  and  all  that  surrounds  it,  its 
position  is  continually  that  of  strife,  and  its  experience 
that  of  disappointment.  No  soul,  however  grand, 
can  be  a  centre  for  the  motions  of  God's  spiritual 
universe,  or  a  final  cause  for  the  adjustments  of  his 
providence.  Any  of  us  has  but  an  atom's  place  in 
that  immensity  of  individualities  for  which,  as  for  our 
own,  God's  universe  is  constructed,  and  God's  provi- 
dence is  arranged.  Living  out  of  ourselves  as  well 
as  in,  we  can  discern  marvellous  adaptation  in  this 
boundless  system  of  contrasts,  and  we  can  rejoice  in 
the  harmony  which  we  discern.  Considering,  however, 
this  system  as  it  will  often  press  upon  ourselves,  and 
only  in  reference  to  ourselves,  we  make  a  single  ele- 
ment of  importance  that  is  infinitely  disproportioned, 
the  whole  then  seems  wrong,  and  we  are  unhappy. 
When  to  a  mistake  so  fatal,  we  add  inordinate  desires 
and  an  active  imagination,  our  being  is  not  merely 
discord,  but  rebellion ;   rebellion  against  the  wisdom 


THE  MORAL  PHILOSOPHY  OF  BYROn's  LIFE.         107 

and  the  might  of  Heaven.  Deceived  in  the  notion  of 
our  strength,  we  are  defeated,  but  not  humbled  ;  in- 
capable of  the  magnanimous  virtues  of  content  and 
patience,  we  invoke  around  the  demons  of  misanthropy 
and  disbelief.  It  is  not  that  our  expectations  are  such 
as  must  most  often  be  reversed,  the  temper  also  of  soul 
is  such  as  can  least  endure  their  reversal.  "  O,  you 
are  sick  of  self,  Malvolio,"  saith  Olivier,  "  and  taste 
with  a  distempered  appetite.  To  be  generous,  guiltless, 
and  of  a  free  disposition,  is  to  take  things  for  bird-bolts, 
that  you  deem  cannon  balls."  So  wrote  Shakspeare, 
the  sage  and  seer  of  the  human  heart. 

If  with  this  consciousness  of  self,  as  agents,  we  have 
as  strong  a  consciousness  of  others  as  observers,  we 
are  doubly  sensitive ;  and  these  two  tendencies  usually 
go  together.  When  self  has  been  a  frequent  object  of 
our  own  consciousness,  the  habit  of  attention  gives  to 
the  existence  it  implies,  an  importance  corresponding 
to  our  force  of  realization  ;  and  that  so  important  in  our 
own  esteem,  we  cannot  suppose  wholly  indifferent  in  the 
esteem  of  others.  If  such  is  not  a  persuasion,  it  is  a 
desire  or  a  fear,  a  desire  for  a  praise  or  a  fear  of  cen- 
sure. Persons  of  strong  self-consciousness  are  those 
who  write  journals  and  autobiographies ;  and  journals 
and  autobiographies  are  the  fruits  of  two  energetic 
feelings ;  first,  of  the  individual  being,  secondly,  the 


108  LECTURES  AND  ESSAYS. 

desire  to  reveal  it,  including  the  inference,  of  course, 
that  it  is  worth  revealing.  The  mental  temperament 
here  specified  is  entirely  irrespective  of  the  actual 
excellence  or  insignificance  of  the  matters  themselves. 
Whatever  be  the  difference  of  their  intrinsic  value,  the 
essence  of  the  character  is  the  same.  It  is  of  no  ac- 
count what  volume  —  whether  a  world  or  a  village  — 
the  capacity  occupies,  what  space  the  interest  can  fill ; 
radically,  the  elements  of  character  are  identical  which 
find  expression  in  the  confessions  of  an  Augustine,  or 
the  experiences  of  a  rustic  devotee.  Those  who  are 
much  engaged  with  their  own  sensation,  complacently 
imagine  that  all  society  is  concerned  about  them  ;  and 
the  delusion  pertains  to  dunces  as  well  as  to  men  of 
genius.  Rousseau  pondered  his  own  ideas  until  being 
was  agony,  and  mankind  appeared  to  his  tormented 
fancy  conspired  to  destroy  him.  Vainly  was  the  world 
busy  with  affairs  far  opposite  to  his  ;  the  world  to  him 
was  in  the  direction  of  his  own  contemplation,  and  that 
was  inward  upon  his  trembling  heart.  Dennis,  the 
critic,  distant  enough  from  Rousseau,  was  disrespectful 
to  France  in  a  stupid  play ;  he  implored  the  Duke  of 
Marlborough  to  have  his  name  included  in  the  treaty 
of  peace  which  that  nobleman  was  negotiating,  to 
shield  his  criticship  from  the  vengeance  of  the  offended 
French. 


THE  MORAL  PHILOSOPHY  OF  BYRON's  LIFE.        109 

Few  men  were  ever  more  under  this  double  influ- 
ence than  Lord  Byron ;  an  influence  to  all  the  nobler 
moral  energies,  most  blighting  and  most  deadly.    Alive 
to  his  own  inward  existence,  even  to  agony,  he  was 
exquisitively  sensitive  that  this  existence  should  make 
impression  in  the  world.      He  would  be  a  cynic,  but 
his  austerity  should  be  known ;  he  could  soliloquize  on 
misery,  but  he  would  have  an  audience  to  hear  him. 
Casting  himself  recklessly  against  the  world's  proprie- 
ties, no  one  writhed  more  under  censure,  not  the  cen- 
sure of  the  great  moral  instinct  of  society,  but  of  mere 
conventionalism  —  the    conventionalism    too,    of    the 
smallest  cliques,  which  he  so  fiercely  denounced,  and 
which    he   seemd    so    to   despise.      Thus,   from   two 
sources,  he  was  the  subject  of  constant  excruciation ; 
from  self  and  from  society ;  from  morbid  contemplation 
of  the  one,  from  disjointed  relations  with  the  other ; 
provoking   its   odium,  and  writhing  under,   while   we 
seemed  to  scorn  it;  scouting  its  sanctions,  yet  angry 
and  indignant  when  the  violation  reacted  in  torture. 
The  inward  and  the  outward  conditions  of  Byron's  life 
were  those  of  unrest,  that  knew  not  peace;  remote 
from  harmony,  and  therefore,  from  happiness. 

The  character  of  Byron  is  lamentably  defective  in 
eingle-mindedness,  a  quality  essential  to  life's  happi- 
ness, and  equally  essential    to  life's   moral    beauty. 


110  LECTURES  AND  ESSAYS. 

Lord  Byron  never  leaves  upon  us  the  impression  of  an 
unconscious  simplicity.  We  do  not  think  of  him  with 
a  cordial  familiarity,  as  we  do  of  Shakspeare,  whom 
yet  we  enshrine  in  such  heart-consenting  reverence. 
We  stand  away  from  Byron,  not  as  we  would  with 
awe  in  the  presence  of  a  godly  nature,  but  as  we 
would  in  fear  of  etiquette  in  a  first  introduction  to  a 
monarch  in  official  robes.  Something  artificial  adheres 
to  Byron  in  all  he  does,  and  from  habit  it  adheres  to 
him  when  his  intentions  are  most  sincere.  Mrs.  Sid- 
dons  could  not  ask  for  beer  but  in  a  manner  that 
startled  the  butler;  Byron  could  scarcely  swim  or  ride, 
that  the  observation  of  mankind  was  not  before  him. 
Desiring  to  be  an  object  of  attention,  —  and  large  must 
have  been  his  measure,  if  he  had  not  as  much  attention 
as  he  desired,  —  Byron  saw  the  world  as  a  stage,  and 
conformed  his  gestures  and  his  attitudes  to  the  require 
ments  of  the  scene.  Doubtless,  beneath  the  tinsel  and 
the  spangles,  there  was  much  that  was  genuine  and 
hearty.  A  man  of  fewer  impulses  than  Lord  Byron 
had  from  nature,  could  not  always  keep  in  the  theatre 
and  wear  its  costume,  and  a  man  of  fewer  social  sym- 
pathies would  need  a  circle  of  ease  and  confidence. 
But  even  in  these,  Byron  understood  the  force  of 
dramatic  contrast,  and  from  the  clashing  of  the  near 
impression  with  the  distant,  could  heighten  the   effect 


Ill 


of  both.  A  graceful  amiability  of  which  his  manner 
was,  when  he  chose,  peculiarly  susceptible,  was  a 
miracle  of  light  to  those,  who  formed  their  idea 
of  him  in  the  Corsair  or  in  Cain;  but,  a  freedom 
which  did  not  suit  his  humor,  he  could  at  once 
repel. 

The  want  of  single-mindedness  is  seen  in  mani- 
fold affectation.  If  we  credit  certain  of  Byron's  crit- 
ics and  biographers,  Byron  often  assumed  an  air  of 
mystery,  that  something  awful  might  be  supposed 
behind,  —  "a  deed  without  a  name."  Except  he 
intended  to  make  merry  with  his  dupes,  the  vanity  was 
a  wretched  one ;  and,  if  he  hoped  his  deception  to  be 
successful,  he  must  have  ranked  them  by  the  standard 
of  nursery  superstitions.  But,  there  is  no  need  in  this 
or  other  cases,  that  might  be  mentioned,  to  resort  to 
doubtful  accusation  ;  instances  enough  are  plain,  which 
though  not  criminal,  are  characteristic.  He  began  his 
course  in  affecting  to  despise  money,  and  he  ended  in 
affecting  to  love  it.  At  first  he  pretended  to  disdain 
remuneration  for  his  works,  but  subsequently  his  pub- 
lisher found  him  an  exacting  author.  This  is  not  the 
only  inconsistency  which  we  observe  in  him  with 
respect  to  his  compositions.  With  the  sternness  of  a 
literary  Brutus,  he  seems  at  times  to  give  up  his  intel- 
lectual offspring  to  the  death-sentence  of  criticism ;  a 


112  LECTURES  AND  ESSAYS, 

literary  Brutus,  however,  has  this  advantage  over /the 
old  Roman,  that  the  life  of  his  darling  may  be  sung  in 
another  copy ;  and  so  it  was  with  Byron's.  Shelley 
had  given  judgment  against  "The  Deformed  Trans- 
formed ; "  Byron,  in  the  presence  of  Shelley  and  other 
witnesses,  consigned  the  manuscript  to  the  flames,  with 
the  tranquillity  of  an  inquisitor  burning  a  heretic  ;  but  a 
short  while  after,  the  drama  appeared  in  its  unmaimed 
integrity.  He  assumed,  on  occasions,  a  supreme  indif- 
ference for  his  writings.  "  I  do'nt  care,"  he  says, 
"  two  lumps  of  sugar  for  my  poetry,  but  for  my  costume 
and  correctness  ;  on  these  points  I  will  combat  lustily." 
Literary  affectation  he  carried  to  a  degree  of  caprice, 
which  no  man  would  have  dared,  but  one  who  had  his 
amazing  popularity.  And  here,  also,  we  have  the  theat- 
rical tendencies  of  his  character  ;  for  some  instances  of 
whims,  mark  his  conduct  with  respect  to  his  works, 
which  would  better  suit  a  petted  opera  singer,  than  a 
mighty  poet.  He  corresponded  at  one  time  with 
Murray,  to  repurchase  and  recall  his  copyrights ;  he 
even  refunded  money  he  had  just  received.  Murray 
doubted  the  seriousness  of  the  whole  matter  ;  and  from 
the  ease  with  which  Byron  was  dissuaded,  we  may 
doubt  it  also.  Enough  has  now  been  said  on  this  topic 
of  affectation. 

Let  us  turn  to  another  source  in  Byron's  character 


113 


of  suffering  and  of  wrong.  It  was  his  immense  in- 
ward energy,  broken  into  wild  and  unchastened  im- 
pulse. This  energy,  which  had  needed  the  wisest 
discipline,  was  from  the  first  left  to  the  promptings  of 
its  own  blind  will.  This  energy,  which  had  called  for 
a  system  of  rigorous  moral  culture,  was  subjected  to  no 
restraint  of  custom,  and  to  no  check  of  law.  This 
energy,  which,  rightly  ordered,  would  have  been  a 
beauty  and  a  light  in  the  dwelling-place  of  life,  shat- 
tered and  confused,  only  filled  it  with  turbulence  and 
with  disaster.  This  energy,  expressed  in  permanent 
affections,  and  directed  by  great  principles,  would  have 
made  genius  as  the  creative ness  of  God,  a  holy  power 
of  love  and  wisdom ;  but  Byron  had  neither  permanent 
affections  nor  great  principles,  and  his  genius,  there- 
fore,, became  an  instrument  of  pain  to  himself ;  to 
others,  a  prophecy  of  evil,  or  a  voice  of  denial.  Byron 
had  no  permanent  affections ;  to  keep  to  literal  truth, 
he  had  few.  Those  of  kindred,  which  are  often  the 
only  earthly  compensation  of  poverty,  which  last 
through  change  and  travel,  and  hi  exile  and  in  death, 
bring  back  the  beat  of  childhood's  being  to  the  failing 
pulse,  and  the  bliss  of  childhood  memories  to  the  part- 
ing spirit,  —  those  were  not  for  Byron ;  they  hovered 
not  around  his  titled  youth,  to  guide  his  steps ;  they 

VOL.   I.  8 


114  LECTURES  AND  ESSAYS. 

came  not  up  in  the  recollections  of  his  vagrant  exist- 
ence, in  guardian  fancies  to  keep  his  heart. 

Neither  was  his  the  blessing  of  a  pure  and  exalted 
love,  to  be  a  lamp  of  ideal  beauty  and  disinterested 
hope  amidst  the  clouds  and  quagmires  of  the  passions. 
The  boyish  feelings  which  idolized  Miss  Chaworth 
might  have  ripened  into  devoted  and  confirmed  senti- 
ment ;  as  it  was,  they  were  rejected,  and  that  fine  strung 
ear,  which  longed  to  catch  the  name  of  Byron  syllabled 
in  the  softness  of  a  maiden's  reverie,  heard  it  uttered 
only  in  derision  of  his  lameness  :  "  Do  you  think  I  could 
like  that  lame  boy  ?  "  A  charm  was  dissolved  by  these 
words,  harmlessly  spoken  in  a  girl's  indifference  ;  words 
that  fell  without  intention,  as  sparks  upon  a  hidden 
mine,  and  left  a  rent  of  blackness  which  time  could 
never  close.  This  void  seems  always  to  have  remained 
unoccupied  ;  a  thin  surface  may,  indeed,  have  over- 
spread it.  On  such  foundation,  and  above  such  empti- 
ness, Byron  raised  his  domestic  altar  ;  it  required  but  a 
breath  to  shake  it ;  the  breath  was  not  wanting,  and  it 
fell,  never  to  be  rebuilt. 

It  is  our  inward  world  that  makes  our  outward  ;  the 
life  that  we  see  is  but  the  reflection  of  the  one  which 
we  feel,  for  which  heaven,  earth,  society  are  mirrors, 
and  the  thoughts  and  associations  of  the  soul  the  arche- 
types and  objects.     The  inward  world  of  Byron  soon 


THE  MORAL  PHILOSOPHY  OF  BYRON's  LIFE.         115 

became  a  chaos,  and  therefore  the  outward  world  in  his 
native  locality  became  disorganized.  All  that  renders 
the  native  soil  endeared  to  fancy  was  blasted  in  his 
morbid  life.  The  feelings  which  consecrate  the  spot 
that  nursed  us,  which  are  the  music  of  its  airs  and  the 
beauty  of  its  skies,  the  glory  of  its  grass  and  the  splen- 
dor of  its  flowers ;  these  feelings  were  not  crushed  in 
Byron,  but  they  were  empoisoned,  and  therefore  his 
country  is  ever  in  his  imagination,  not  a  blessed  remi- 
niscence, but  a  troubled  dream.  If  all  these  primitive 
emotions  in  Byron  were  so  despoiled,  it  is  not  wonder- 
ful that  secondary  ones  should  share  their  injury.  If 
Byron  had  but  discomfort  in  those  sacred  places  of  the 
breast  where  the  choicest  guests  are  sheltered,  we  could 
expect  but  chill  and  ruin  in  the  outer  courts.  When 
kindred  and  country,  and  love  and  friendship  are  dead, 
we  are  dead.  Human  affections  are  so  entwined  with 
each  other,  that  the  chord  of  one  can  seldom  be  un- 
tuned, that  the  harmonies  of  all  are  not  disturbed.  Sad, 
then,  must  be  the  discord,  when  it  is  not  one  but  many 
that  are  dissonant.  Byron's  sister  and  daughter  were 
dear,  and  cherished  sacredly  in  all  his  evil ;  which  inti- 
mate that  he  was  made  for  better  courses  than  those 
wherein  he  walked. 

Permanent  affections  Byron  had  not,  but  flashings  of 
kindliness  constantly  evince  that  a  good  spirit  struggled 


116  LECTURES  AND  ESSAYS. 

with  the  evil,  and  had  his  moments  of  victory.  Refer- 
ences to  early  days,  yearnings  over  departed  friends, 
sad  dreamings  of  broken  hopes,  inexpressible  and  glow- 
ing tributes  to  England,  occasional  deeds  of  princely 
generosity,  and  habitual  pity  for  distress,  and  sympathy 
with  misfortune,  we  discover  in  all  the  stages  of  his 
progress.  Still,  unsettled  and  unsatisfied,  his  energy 
was  in  no  direction  to  bring  the  soul  to  calm  fruition, 
yet  energy  must,  in  some  direction,  come  to  its  limit ; 
thence  his  rushing  into  all  excess  of  passion. 
.  The  passions  are  at  once  tempters  and  chastisers. 
As  tempters,  they  come  with  garlands  of  flowers,  on 
brows  of  youth;  as  chastisers,  they  appear  with  wreaths 
of  snakes  on  the  forehead  of  deformity.  They  are 
angels  of  light  in  their  delusion ;  they  are  fiends  of 
torment  in  their  inflictions ;  they  mislead  only  to  re- 
criminate, they  flatter  that  they  may  deride  ;  they  show 
us  a  false  glory  but  to  mock  us ;  they  raise  us  to  the 
cloud-capped  pinnacle,  to  dash  us  fiercely  to  the  stony 
ground.  Like  the  daughters  of  Lear,  they  first  beguile 
their  victim  of  his  sovereignty  and  power ;  and  when 
their  dupe  is  enfeebled  and  dependent,  robbed  of  every 
friendly  support,  of  every  pleasant  companion,  a  beggar 
in  consolation  and  in  hope,  they  cast  him  out  upon  the 
desert,  to  the  darkness  of  the  night,  and  the  fury  of  the 
tempest. 


THE  MORAL  PHILOSOPHY  OF  BYRON's  LIFE.        117 

Byron,  I  have  said,  was  not  sustained  by  great  prin- 
ciples. He  had  no  settled  philosophy.  In  metaphysics, 
he  was  by  turns  idealist  and  materialist ;  a  sceptic  and 
a  dogmatist.  In  literature,  his  dicta  were  commonly 
but  whims,  the  mere  assertions  of  caprice  or  paradox. 
He  eulogized  Kirke  White,  and  yet  he  disparaged 
Keats  ;  Pope  had  his  rapture,  and  even  Hayley  gained 
his  praise  ;  but  Shakspeare  won  from  him  no  enthusi- 
asm, and  the  rare  mention  which  he  made  of  this  great 
name,  was  in  coldness  or  in  censure.  To  cotemporary 
genius,  which  was  caviare  to  the  multitude,  which  had 
no  cheers  from  popular  applause,  he  never  extended 
fellowship  or  sympathy;  and  in  some  instances,  his 
sin  was  worse  than  the  simple  want  of  appreciation. 
Wordsworth  he  treated  with  a  coarseness  and  indignity 
disgraceful  and  ungenerous  ;  and  Southey  he  pursued 
with  an  indefatigable  vengeance,  which  no  rancor  of 
the  critic  can  justify  in  the  poet.  The  conduct  of 
Shelley  to  his  persecutors  is  a  strong  and  exalted  con- 
trast to  that  of  Byron.  In  morals,  the  code  of  Byron, 
if  such  a  designation  can  be  applied  to  mere  eccen- 
tricities of  will  and  desire,  was  a  mixture  of  the  cynical 
and  the  sensual,  a  combination  of  Timon  and  Epicurus. 
In  government,  he  vibrated  between  democracy  and 
despotism  :  power  he  would  have  perfect  in  the  many 
or   the  one,  but  not  power  complicated  between  the 


118  LECTURES   AND  ESSAYS. 

many  and  the  one.  "  Give  me,"  he  says,  "  a  republic 
or  a  despotism.  A  Republic,"  he  exclaims  ;  "  look  on 
the  history  of  the  earth,  Rome,  France,  Holland, 
America,  for  that  (eheu !)  Commonwealth,  and  com- 
pare it  with  what  they  did  under  masters ! "  But, 
however  much  Byron  esteemed  liberty,  and  despised 
aristocracy,  in  temper  he  was  an  aristocrat ;  he  was 
for  the  people,  but  he  was  not  q/them. 

Religion,  it  will  be  asserted,  he  had  or  had  not,  ac- 
cording to  the  view  which  the  critic  may  take  of  religion 
or  of  Byron.  But  he  is  a  poor  critic  both  of  religion 
and  of  character,  who  does  not  find  at  least  the  ele- 
ments of  religion  in  Byron,  chaotically,  it  may  be,  yet 
sublimely  active.  Byron  had  no  formal  religious,  train- 
ing :  no  mother  from  his  childhood  was  near,  to  put  a 
prayer  on  his  lips,  to  whisper  a  thought  of  the  good 
God  or  of  the  blessed  Jesus  to  his  opening  heart,  to 
teach  him  at  her  knee  to  consecrate  each  morning  and 
night,  with  innocent  and  simple  worship.  He  knew 
nothing  of  Sunday  schools  or  Scripture  lessons,  and 
though  a  peer  of  England,  a  born  legislator,  and  under 
the  guardianship  of  the  country's  most  venerable  edu- 
cational institutions,  the  nonage  of  the  most  neglected 
pauper  could  not  be  spiritually  more  desolate.  But  the 
religious  instinct,  which  the  poetic  genius  cannot  but 
strongly  feel,  had,  in  a  wild  way,  its  growth  and  energy. 


119 


It  appears  early  in  Byron's  self-re vealings,  and  they 
show  it  to  the  last. 

Byron's  soul  was  dark,  unhoping,  not  indeed  trem- 
bling, nor  yet  believing ;  but  its  habitual  ponderings 
were  over  the  deep  things  of  existence,  its  affinities 
were  with  whatever  in  being  is  infinite  and  awful.  If 
he  did  not  discern  goodness  and  justice  clearly  in  the 
universe,  no  one  than  he  seems  more  affected  by  the 
limitless  Presence  in  it  of  Power  and  Intelligence ; 
and  with  these,  through  oceans,  stars,  mountains,  des- 
erts, caverns,  volcanoes,  cataracts,  tempests,  he  ever 
held  profound  communion.  Such  communings  make 
not  a  little  of  his  song  ;  a  song,  when  vocal  with  these, 
if  not  filial  and  trustful,  yet  not  gross,  not  earthly ;  a 
song,  then,  sad,  but  never  whining ;  often  dirge-like  in 
its  music,  but  always  massive,  rich  and  solemn.  Fre- 
quently, he  looks  only  at  our  nature  on  the  side  of  its 
littleness,  sports  with  it  perversely  and  cynically ;  but 
his  true  sympathy  is  with  it  in  its  greatness,  its  strength, 
its  grief,  its  passions,  its  mysteries,  and  its  destinies ; 
if  he  does  laugh  and  sneer,  it  is  only  when  he  comes 
upon  the  surface,  and  you  observe  by  the  palpitations 
of  his  heart,  by  the  heavings  of  his  breast,  and  by  the 
nervous  quiver  of  his  lip,  that  he  has  been  diving  in 
deep  waters.  Having  that  which  rendered  him  thus 
susceptible  to  all  whatever  was  profound  and  grand  in 


120  LECTURES  AND  ESSAYS. 

nature  and  in  man,  we  wonder  not  at  his  appreciation 
of  the  most  sublime  passages  in  the  Bible ;  and  we  can 
easily  comprehend  the  repeated  and  delighting  study, 
which  made  him  so  familiar  with  the  lofty  dithyrambics 
of  David  and  Isaiah,  with  the  fine  vehemence  of  St.  Paul, 
and  mystic  melody  of  St.  John.  Of  course  I  do  not 
say,  that  Byron  was  a  religious  man,  as  Burns  was  not ; 
yet  both  of  them  had  much  of  the  religious  nature. 
Each  of  them  had,  with  the  intensity  of  his  genius,  the 
elements  of  the  religious  nature  ;  but  neither  of  them 
had  the  principle  which  combines  and  shapes  these 
elements  into  religious  character.  With  the  religious 
character,  neither  could  have  lived  as  he  did ;  without 
a  strong  religious  nature,  Byron  could  not  have  written 
the  noblest  passages  in  Childe  Harold,  nor  Burns  "  The 
Cottager's  Saturday  Night." 

If  Byron,  however,  has  been  sinful  and  unhappy,  he 
has  found  a  biographer  who  labors  with  no  common 
devotion  to  show,  that  it  has  been  all  the  better  for  the 
world,  not  because  such  a  life  is  a  beacon,  but  a  glory. 
Evil  and  suffering  in  the  soul  would  seem,  according  to 
such  critics,  not  to  be  hindrances  to  power,  but  sinews 
of  strength.  But  the  head  must  be  grievously  confused 
by  false  reasoning,  and  the  heart  deeply  imbruted  by 
false  morality,  before  we  can  believe  that  a  poet  has 
fountains  of  inspiration  in  petulance,   profligacy,  and 


THE  MORAL  PHILOSOPHY   OF  BYRON's  LIFE.         121 

self-infliction.  Byron,  with  all  his  transgression,  re- 
ceives injury,  both  in  dignity  and  manhood,  by  some 
reflections  of  Moore  which  seem  written  in  a  spirit  of 
friendship.  A  later  phase  of  the  poet's  life  is  thus 
described  :  "  The  imaginary  or  at  least  retrospective 
sorrows  in  which  he  once  loved  to  indulge,  and  whose 
tendency  it  was,  through  the  medium  of  his  fancy,  to 
soften  and  refine  his  heart,  were  now  exchanged  for  a 
host  of  actual,  ignoble  vexations,  which  it  was  even 
more  humiliating  than  painful  to  encounter.  His  mis- 
anthropy, instead  of  being,  as  heretofore,  a  vague  and 
abstract  feeling,  without  an  object  to  light  upon,  and 
therefore  losing  its  acrimony  in  diffusion,  was  now,  by 
the  hostility  he  came  in  contact  with,  condensed  into 
individual  enmities,  and  harrowed  into  personal  resent- 
ments, and  from  the  lofty,  and  as  it  appeared  to  him- 
self, philosc^hical  luxury  of  hating  mankind  in  the 
gross,  he  was  now  brought  down  to  the  self-humiliating 
necessity  of  despising  them  in  detail."  The  poet's 
venerable  friend,  Ali  Pacha,  himself,  would  startle  at 
such  a  passage  :  "  By  Mahomet  and  his  beard ! "  he 
might  well  exclaim,  "  what  words  are  these  !  "  Byron, 
it  seems,  is  a  good  boy  while  no  one  touches  his  sugar- 
plums, but  no  sooner  does  any  person  venture  near  his 
dainties,  than  he  kicks  and  bites  with  a  special  fury. 
The  world,  by  this  account,  tried  him  with  a  hard 


122  LECTURES  AND  ESSAYS. 

experience.  He  was  reduced  from  hating  men  in  the 
gross,  to  despising  them  in  detail ;  and  it  was  only,  it 
would  appear,  after  extreme  provocation,  that  he  de- 
scended from  the  ethereality  of  an  abstract  misanthropy 
to  the  drudgery  of  a  practical  contempt.  What  patience, 
and  what  magnanimous  forbearance,  under  such  accu- 
mulated trials ;  and  what  adversity  befalls  the  minstrel's 
lot,  when  he  must  quit  the  sublime  office  of  detesting 
his  whole  species  to  vent  his  spleen  on  Dick  and  Tom. 
Seriously,  if  poetry  could  end  in  woe  like  this,  then 
welcome  prose  for  ever :  if  this  was  Byron's  state,  it 
was  not  wretchedness,  but  perdition. 

Byron,  with  great  moral  delinquency,  was  an  ohject 
of  peculiar  interest. 

Here  is  the  second  position,  which  forms  the  other 
topic  of  these  reflections.  The  truth  of  this,  as  of  the 
first,  may  be  simply  assumed,  for  it  does  not  need  to  be 
established.  No  writer  ever  ingratiated  a  wider  interest 
than  Byron ;  and  this  interest  was  not  all  of  levity  or 
vanity,  not  merely  from  love-sick  young  maidens,  and 
moon-struck  young  men  ;  pure-souled  women  implored 
his  salvation  in  their  dying  prayers,  and  religious  poets 
sung  of  him  in  connection  with  the  final  judgment.  If 
we  listened  to  Byron's  own  complaints,  we  would  sup- 
pose him  subjected  to  the  most  condign  penalties  of 
opinion.     But  such  was  not  the  fact.     The  popularity 


THE  MORAL  PHILOSOPHY  OF  BYKOn's  LIFE.        123 

of  his  person  and  his  writings  held  in  England  to  the 
last ;  and  the  sorrow  which  followed  his  ashes  to  the 
tomb  evinced  how  many  offences  a  nation  can  pardon 
and  forget  in  genius.  In  Lord  Byron's  own  rank,  and 
in  his  immediate  circle,  some  may  have  caused  him 
vexation  ;  but  beyond  that,  what  a  blaze  of  fame,  and 
what  a  pride  of  triumph  !  Occasionally,  the  critical 
journals  administered  rebuke ;  but  the  same  article 
which  condemned  his  morals,  glorified  his  muse  ;  and 
Byron  must  have  had  a  virtuous  sensibility,  which  the 
world  has  never  been  able  to  discover,  if  remonstrance 
against  his  vice,  accompanied  with  homage  to  his 
poetry,  could  very  scathingly  afflict  him.  Had  their 
reprobation  been  louder  than  it  was,  success  would 
have  stifled  their  vociferation  ;  and,  from  the  throne  of 
his  renown,  their  agitation  seemed  but  aimless  contor- 
tion, which  could  not  reach  him,  and  made  themselves 
ridiculous. 

Moreover,  Byron  could  have  had  no  faith  in  their 
sincerity,  no  respect  for  their  principles.  He  knew  to 
what  an  extent  they  were  venal,  factious,  heartless  ;  he 
knew  how  much  they  were  influenced  by  malicious 
and  ignoble  considerations,  by  personality,  by  party,  by 
caste,  by  every  motive  except  integrity  or  justice  ;  he 
daily  witnessed  good  men  and  noble,  set  up  as  objects 
of  their  laughter  or  anathema  :  little  then  must  he  have 


124  LECTURES  AND  ESSAYS. 

esteemed  the  reproofs  of  those  with  whom  worth,  for 
its  own  sake,  had  no  sacredness,  and  genius,  discolored 
by  their  prejudice,  no  illumination.  What  could  Byron 
care  for  their  mocking  of  counsel,  the  make-believe  of 
their  preachment,  their  cant  of  virtue,  their  twaddle  of 
formalism,  when  the  whole  current  of  their  utterance 
tended  only  to  reveal  its  hypocrisy,  and  to  sound  its 
hollowness  ? 

What  are  we  then  to  infer  from  the  popularity  of 
Byron  ?  Are  we  to  conclude  from  it,  the  moral  degra- 
dation of  the  age,  a  pervading  disorder  of  the  public 
conscience  ?  I  do  not  think  so.  Whence,  then,  are 
we  to  seek  the  cause  ?  Partly,  I  apprehend,  in  the 
power  of  genius  in  itself,  and  more  specially  in  that 
power  as  it  was  modified  in  Byron  ;  partly  in  the  miti- 
gations which  his  life  presented ;  mitigations,  which 
came  before  men's  thoughts  heightened  by  all  the  en- 
chantment which  was  associated  with  the  poet's  name. 

To  begin  with  the  latter.  In  alluding  to  these,  I 
sincerely  repel  the  doctrine,  that  character  is  the  result 
of  circumstances,  a  doctrine  as  degrading  as  it  is  per- 
nicious. Absolution  from  a  personal  sense  of  guilt  is 
dearly  purchased  by  a  loss  of  the  sense  of  freedom ; 
the  consciousness  of  indwelling  divinity  is  not  worthily 
exchanged  for  the  impunity  of  a  mechanical  necessity. 
But  while  the  essence  of  character  does  not  arise  from 


THE  MORAL  PHILOSOPHY  OF  BYEON's  LIFE.         125 

circumstances,  circumstances  have  no  small  influence 
upon  its  manifestation.  Human  nature,  compounded 
as  it  is,  so  bound  up  by  many  ties  with  material  life,  so 
dependent  on  external  supports,  so  contingent,  too,  on 
events  that  lie  out  of  our  foresight  or  control ;  human 
nature  being  thus  interwoven  with  so  much  that  is 
extrinsic,  can  never,  even  when  it  has  most  individu- 
ality, exert  a  spiritual  liberty,  that  is  complete  and 
unrestrained.  In  our  judgments,  therefore,  about  it  in 
any  given  position,  we  must  take  many  obstructions 
into  account ;  candor  will  require  many  allowances, 
and  charity  will  look  for  more.  What  we  give  to  men 
generally,  because  of  our  nature's  imperfections,  we 
must  not  withhold  from  men  of  genius ;  for  they  are 
men  as  others ;  they  share  their  infirmities  ;  and  the 
spirit  which  can  thus  discriminate,  ought  peculiarly  to 
direct  any  moral  criticism  on  the  life  of  Byron. 

Byron  was  unfortunate  in  parentage.  His  father  was 
a  rake  and  a  spendthrift ;  a  man  without  heart  and 
without  principle.  His  mother  was  a  compound  of 
fondness  and  caprice  ;  in  her  fondness  she  was  a  fool, 
in  her  caprice  she  was  a  termagant.  The  temper  of 
Byron,  it  is  said,  even  in  childhood,  was  passionate  and 
sullen  ;  a  natural  inheritance,  which  moral  causes  were 
not  wanting  to  increase.  The  harsh  disposition  of  his 
parents,  their  jarring  antipathies,  their  unloving  union, 


126  LECTURES  AND  ESSAYS. 

their  embittered  separation,  were  germs  of  evil  in  his 
childhood's  life.  They  parted,  it  is  true,  while  he  was 
almost  an  infant,  but  many  are  the  fatal  impressions 
which  may  lie  backward  of  that  boundary  of  conscious- 
ness, over  which  memory  does  not  pass.  Early  as 
separation  happened,  it  could  not  fail  of  ill ;  it  was  a 
sad  tradition  from  his  early  years,  and  his  mother, 
unhappily,  in  the  monopoly  of  guardianship,  had  like- 
wise the  monoploy  of  unfitness. 

A  trivial  bodily  defect  became  to  Byron  a  serious 
affliction.  The  matter  in  itself  was  slight,  but  acting 
on  a  morbid  sensibility,  its  vexation  was  lasting  and 
inveterate.  Persons  wonder  why  it  should  be  thus  ; 
but  this  is  the  ordinary  wonder  which  springs  from 
the  incapacity  to  understand  afflictions  which  we  do 
not  feel.  The  ill  of  life  can  no  more  be  discerned 
by  the  senses,  than  its  good ;  it  is  not  to  be  measured 
by  any  statutory  rule,  it  cannot  be  graduated  by  any 
external  scale.  It  is  relative,  and  not  positive ;  deter- 
mined by  the  mental  and  moral  organization  of  its 
subject,  by  mysterious  workings  of  fancy  and  emo- 
tion, by  inward  peculiarities  of  the  individual,  which 
only  himself  can  apprehend,  and  which  he  cannot 
always  control.  Below  the  surface  of  all  human  ca- 
lamity, there  is  ever  much  which  the  untouched  cannot 
appreciate  ;  there  is  a  sting  which  only  the  stricken 


THE  MORAL  PHILOSOPHY  OF  BYRON's  LIFE.         127 

heart  can  feel ;  there  is  a  grief  with  which  the  stranger 
does  not  intermeddle.  But  speculate  as  we  will,  the 
fact  practically  connected  with  our  observations,  re- 
mains unaltered.  Byron  regarded  his  lameness  with 
inexpressible  distress.  Reference  to  it  was  torture. 
The  most  cruel  recollection  which  clung  to  the  memory 
of  his  mother,  was  an  allusion  in  her  anger  to  his 
deformity ;  and  in  the  midst  of  his  splendid  fame  in 
London,  the  mimicry  of  a  wretched  woman  whom  he 
approached  with  intentions  of  compassion,  was  a  blow 
that  stunned  him. 

Whatever  could  be  pleaded  in  Byron's  favor,  man- 
kind were  predisposed  to  hear.  He  had  qualities  to 
which  mankind  give  ample  charity.  He  had  youth, 
high  birth,  fortune,  beauty  ;  and  these  of  themselves 
are  a  magic  which  the  world  does  not  austerely  resist. 
He  had  youth,  which  captivates  the  senses  ;  and  high 
birth,  which  allures  imagination ;  and  fortune,  which 
bestows  independence  ;  and  beauty,  which  flings  over 
all  the  radiance  of  its  own  fair  grace.  Upon  him,  as 
upon  so  many,  the  hard  condition  was  not  imposed,  of 
long  working  and  late  reward  ;  it  was  not  his  fate,  to 
grope  on  to  open  light  through  the  chill  passages  of 
obscurity  and  penury.  Byron  became  known  to  the 
world  while  life  was  in  its  bloom,  while  the  present 
hour  had  pleasure,  and  the  future  one  had  hope.     He 


128  LECTTJKES    AND    ESSAYS. 

was  not,  like  Dryden,  of  slow  development,  losing  the 
admiration  which  comes  with  love  to  twenty,  and  only 
gaining  that  which  comes  with  reverence  to  forty ;  the 
sun  of  early  splendor  was  on  the  verdure  of  his  spring- 
tide ;  it  was  not  his  to  wait  until  heavy  mists  dissolved, 
and  the  beams  of  a  sober  evening  fell  upon  seared  and 
yellow  leaves.  He  had  not,  as  Johnson,  to  wear  out 
his  energies  through  tedious  years,  which  led  to  apathy 
as  they  led  to  fame  ;  which  delayed  success,  until 
desire  was  dead,  and  friends  removed  ;  until  "  he  was 
indifferent,  and  could  not  enjoy  it ;  until  he  was  soli- 
tary, and  could  not  impart  it."  Yet,  withal,  he  was 
unhappy,  and  this  was  but  an  additional  foundation  of 
interest  in  him. 

His  first  appearance  in  the  world  of  letters  was  one 
to  stir  the  apathetic,  and  to  attract  the  amiable  ;  and 
his  progress  in  that  world  was  such,  as  did  not  permit 
the  excitement  to  decline.  A  volume  of  poems,  in 
which  good  nature  was  the  prominent  quality,  subjected 
him  to  discourtesy  and  injustice.  If  his  retort  did  not 
merit  the  approbation  of  the  wise,  it  secured  him  against 
the  ridicule  of  the  critical.  Then  followed  a  series  of 
painful  experiences,  which  had  more  than  dramatic  stim- 
ulus to  a  public  that  looked  for  novelty,  and  that  looked 
for  impulse.  It  is  true,  that  many  of  these  experiences 
were  mainly  of  the  imagination  ;  but  they  were  utteied 


129 


with  a  personality  so  concentrative,  that  readers  would 
not  believe  them  to  be  poetic  feigning,  or  be  deprived 
of  their  luxury  of  sensibility.  And,  because  it  was  a 
luxury,  the  more  willing  they  were  to  indulge  it ;  it 
was  a  matter  pleasing  to  self-love  to  feel  so  deeply, 
not  for  vulgar  want,  not  for  ragged  destitution,  not  for 
plebeian  ignorance,  not  for  the  ruin  of  low-born  guilt, 
but  for  the  sublime  woes  of  a  melancholy  spirit.  A 
sympathy  which  is  merely  a  luxury,  will  always  have 
multitudes  to  share  it ;  for  while  it  flatters  the  vanity 
of  sentiment,  no  demand  is  made  on  it  for  action 
or  for  sacrifice.  It  is  true,  that  of  real  sufferings, 
many  were  of  the  poet's  own  creation ;  many  the  result 
of  sin  ;  but  he  threw  around  them  such  eloquent  fasci- 
nation, that  censure  had  small  chance  against  his  spells ; 
while  people  blamed  they  read,  and  while  they  read 
they  admired.  It  is  true,  that  many  of  these  sufferings 
were  cynical ;  but  then,  with  anti-social  discontent, 
there  appeared  such  writhings  of  distress ;  in  the  seem- 
ing scorn  of  opinion,  such  anxiety  for  regard ;  such 
sadness  in  mockery,  such  visitings  of  gentle  thoughts, 
in  the  intervals  of  gloom  ;  through  the  very  tempest  of 
misanthropy,  such  sweet,  low  tones  in  murmurs  for 
affection,  not  loud,  but  deep,  —  that  sympathy  was 
always  too  strong  for  anger. 

But,  that  which  was  the  vital  cause  of  the  interest 

VOL.   I.  9 


130  LECTURES  AND  ESSAYS. 

which  clung  to  Byron,  I  have  forborne,  yet,  to  mention. 
It  was  this  which,  for  the  time  at  least,  heightened  every 
excellence,  and  softened  every  defect ;  which  enshrined 
his  image  and  his  name,  in  the  beauty  of  the  ideal.  It 
was  genius.  Does  genius,  then,  subvert  the  moral  law  ? 
Does  genius  counteract  the  mighty  order  of  moral 
retribution  ?  By  no  means.  Why  then  was  Byron  so 
popular  and  so  admired,  when  a  man,  not  more  sinful, 
but  ungifted,  would  have  been  an  object  of  neglect  or 
odium  ?  Such  must  indeed  be  admitted.  And  true  it 
is,  that  thousands  of  minds,  virtuous  minds,  who  would 
have  shrunk  disgusted  from  contact  with  actual  vice, 
could  never  regard  Byron  with  harsh  emotions.  Is 
this  from  affinity  with  depravity  ?  I  think  not.  Let  us 
examine  the  fact  in  its  relations  to  human  nature.  Our 
judgment  of  abstract  character  does  not,  except  in 
decided  instances,  determine  our  feelings  about  men ; 
our  judgment  is  the  result  of  reasoning  ;  our  feelings, 
of  association.  Individuals  are  presented  to  our 
thoughts  in  pleasant  or  disagreeable  associations, 
and  these  pleasant  or  disagreeable  associations  are 
not  always  graduated  by  the  abstract  moral  merit 
or  demerit  of  the  individual.  Every  person's  experi- 
ence will  confirm  this.  Now,  crime  in  an  ordinaiy 
man,  stands  clearly  and  distinctly  before  us,  and  crime, 
as  such,  is  ever  odious ;  but  in  a  man  of  genius,  it  is 


THE  MORAL  PHILOSOPHY  OF  BTRON's  LIFE.        131 

combined  with  elements  which,  though  not  changing 
its  nature,  take  from  it  our  attention.  I  do  not  deny 
that  herein  is  danger ;  but  my  purpose  is  to  analyze  a 
fact,  and  not  to  impress  a  moral.  To  secure  our  in- 
terest goes  far  to  secure  our  verdict ;  to  give  us  an 
emotion,  is  to  bribe  us  to  concession  ;  and  our  gratitude 
often  bestows  what  our  justice  would  refuse.  If  we 
decided  logically,  this  would  not  be  ;  if  we  acted  with 
the  rigor  of  impassive  intellect,  it  would  not  be  ;  but 
complicated  as  we  are,  with  many  tendencies  and  many 
senses,  the  direction  of  emotion  is  not  always  coinci- 
dent with  the  absolute  and  the  right. 

Moreover,  genius  is  power ;  and  power,  that  is  grand- 
est in  the  human  life,  the  reflection  of  the  Maker's 
creative  spirit.  Power  is  delightful  to  us,  as  a  mere 
object ;  it  magnifies  and  exalts  our  souls,  for  it  reveals 
to  them  in  the  achievements  of  others,  the  grandeur  of 
their  own  capacities.  Those  by  whom  such  convictions 
are  impressed  upon  us  have  relations  that  ennoble  them  ; 
and  though  in  much  we  may  condemn,  we  only  expel 
them  entirely  from  respect,  when  they  are  faithless  or 
malignant.  Genius  is  before  us  in  the  power  of  all 
that  humanity  has  accomplished  :  we  mourn  over  it  in 
the  scenes  of  the  mighty  dead,  and  we  exult  in  it 
amidst  the  works  of  the  not  less  mighty  living  ;  we  find 
its  inscription  on  the  tombs  of  empires;  and  feel  its 


132  LECTURES  AND  ESSAYS. 

ever  plastic  spirit  in  the  origin  and  progress  of  greater 
empires  that  replace  them.  But  genius  is  power,  not 
merely  as  an  object,  but  as  an  influence,  a  power  that 
rules  our  inward  nature,  that  makes  our  faculties  its 
instruments,  and  moves  them  as  it  wills.  The  man  of 
genius  is  not  so  much  at  our  mercy  as  we  are  at  his ; 
he  puts  our  grandest  being  into  action,  and  lifts  us 
from  our  ashes  to  the  stars  ;  he  breaks  the  nut-shell 
to  which  our  own  small  sphere  confined  us,  and  with 
himself  we  become  fellow-citizens  in  the  free  universe 
of  God. 

Genius  is  a  power,  on  the  whole,  benignant,  and  to 
it  we  feel  indebted  for  a  large  portion  of  our  most 
precious  enjoyment.  To  what  capacity  does  it  not 
minister,  and  what  capacity  does  it  not  enrich.  Let 
any  of  us  who  have  had  an  active  and  enlarged  mental 
existence,  remove  from  it  the  treasures  and  the  happi- 
ness which  genius  has  communicated,  and  he  will  find 
himself  equally  poor  in  pleasure  and  in  thought.  What 
would  memory  be  to  us,  if  those  worlds  of  ideas  were 
extinct  with  which  genius  has  peopled  it  ?  Sweep 
from  men's  souls  the  quaint,  the  merry,  the  grave,  the 
gentle,  the  impassioned  population,  which  Shakspeare 
and  Scott  alone  have  introduced  there,  and  would  it  not 
be  as  if  a  glorious  star  with  a  most  living  race  were 
torn  from   eternal  sunshine  and  blotted  into  nothing- 


THE  MORAL  PHILOSOPHY  OF  BYRON's  LIFE.         133 

ness  ?  But  memory  is  only  one  capacity,  and  that  not 
the  most  admirable ;  add  to  this,  the  high  discourse  of 
reason ;  the  enraptured  dreams  of  fancy  ;  the  incite- 
ment of  the  affections ;  the  aspiration  of  the  moral 
sentiments ;  the  profound  agitation  of  the  passions : 
and  who  can  count  the  delights  of  which  he  has  through 
this  agency  been  made  the  recipient,  the  sorrows  of 
which  he  has  been  beguiled,  the  gladness  with  which 
he  has  been  enlivened  ?  By  history,  he  has  lived  in  the 
region  of  the  past,  and  questioned  the  heroic  and  the 
wise.  Fiction  has  allured  him  from  drudgery  to  vision, 
and  in  the  elysium  of  the  ideal,  cheated  him  for  an 
hour  of  anxious  thoughts  or  sordid  cares.  If  fiction 
has  given  him  the  pleasures  of  ideal  being,  eloquence 
has  aroused  him  to  the  action  of  real  concerns ;  in  one 
he  has  found  the  ease  of  reverie,  and  in  the  other  the 
dignity  of  action.  Philosophy  has  traced  for  him  the 
soul  of  things,  and  within  his  own  found  the  essence 
of  them  all.  The  perfection  of  the  whole,  poetry,  has 
communed  with  him  in  charmed  word  ;  poetry,  the 
eldest  voice  of  time,  the  undying  melody  of  the  heart ; 
poetry,  the  language  of  the  spirit,  the  inward  sense  of 
history,  of  fiction,  of  eloquence,  and  of  philosophy, 
united  to  the  harmony  of  sound ;  these,  all  in  their 
several  modes,  are  the  utterance  of  genius. 

Genius  may  be  connected  with  perverted   morals. 


134  LECTURES  AND  ESSAYS. 

and  may  be  used  for  evil ;  but  genius  in  itself  is  good, 
and  must  be  ever  lovely.  Whoever  has  it,  cannot  be 
wholly  in  the  dark  ;  a  light  there  must  be  in  him  ;  and 
though  the  light  be  broken,  it  is  light  from  heaven. 
Genius  in  itself  is  good ;  and  in  any  form  of  manifes- 
tation, good  must  be  its  leading  attribute.  For  in  what 
is  the  manifestation  of  genius  ?  In  truth,  in  beauty,  in 
grandeur.  Genius  cannot  be  divorced  from  reason  and 
from  order.  If  reason  and  order  must  therefore  per- 
vade all  lasting  works  of  genius,  wickedness,  of  which 
the  principles  are  falsehood  and  confusion,  can  never 
be  their  dominant  constituents.  Fine  productions  may 
be  connected  with  moral  deformity,  but  that  is  not  their 
substance  ;  it  is  not  that  which  fires  our  admiration  ;  it 
is  not  that  which  genius  animates.  And  as  in  the  pro- 
duction, so  in  the  author.  His  genius  dignifies  his 
person,  and  to  his  genius,  and  not  his  crimes,  we  pay 
our  reverence.  But  his  genius  is  an  essential  of  his 
nature  ;  it  is  associated  as  such,  with  our  idea  of  him, 
and  we  cannot  divest  that  idea  of  the  attractions  which 
it  thus  derives.  We  cannot  think  of  the  man  of  genius, 
as  if  he  had  only  sins  ;  for  strive  as  we  may,  we  must 
include  the  nobler  parts  of  his  nature  in  our  concep- 
tion, and  these  nobler  parts  will  mostly  stamp  their 
own  likeness  on  the  totality  ;  we  cannot  cut  the  man  in 
two,  and  execrate  this  part  while  we  adore  that.     Lord 


THE  MORAL  PHILOSOPHY  OF  BYROn's  LIFE.        135 

Byron,  especially,  will  defy  such  an  operation,  for  his 
genius  is  not  impersonal ;  it  melted  into  his  entire 
existence  ;  it  was  entwined  with  every  fibre  of  his  indi- 
viduality; and  it  would  be  as  easy  to  tear  from  his 
heart  the  whole  net-work  of  veins  and  arteries,  and 
expect  it  still  to  beat,  as  to  dissect  with  critical  scalpel 
his  actual  being  from  his  poetical,  and  leave  either  of 
them  vitality.  The  one  is  the  palpitation  of  the  other ; 
every  movement  of  sound  has  its  pulse.  His  poetry  is 
the  chronicle  of  his  soul ;  and  whether  from  confidence 
or  contempt,  he  lays  it  bare  to  our  view,  and  with  a 
reckless  independence,  leaves  himself  to  our  opinion. 
If  our  opinion  must  be  severe,  we  should  not  in  forming 
it  forget,  that  he  has  deprecated  nothing  by  conceal- 
ment, and  that  caution  might  easily  have  secured  him 
a  better  name,  though  it  would  not  have  made  him  a 
better  man. 


THE    MORAL    SPIRIT 


OP 


BYRON'S    GENIUS 


The  main  characteristics  of  Byron's  genius,  it  needs 
no  profound  sagacity  to  discern ;  they  are  obvious  on 
the  face  of  his  compositions ;  they  are  strength  of 
passion  and  strength  of  will ;  co-ordinated  by  a  keen 
intellect,  aided  by  a  memory,  not  of  ponderous  learn- 
ing, but  of  instinctive  facility,  enlivened  by  a  fancy  of 
exhaustless  association  ;  these  attributes  give  to  Byron 
his  peculiarity  and  his  power.  This  strength  of  passion 
and  strength  of  will  are  embodied  in  all  his  impersona- 
tions. Pilgrims  or  corsairs,  brigands  or  bravoes,  out- 
casts or  apostates,  whatever  be  their  outward  costume 
or  their  outward  lot,  they  are  all  thus  distinguished. 
A  certain  intensity  of  consciousness  or  intensity  of 
action  is  the  law  of  their  poetical  existence.  A  life 
within  there  must  be,  of  concentrated  feeling  or  con- 


THE  MORAL  SPIRIT  OF  BYRON's  GENIUS.  137 

centrated  purpose  ;  a  life  without  there  must  be,  of 
daring  or  ambition,  of  danger  which  knows  but  death 
or  triumph.  And  they  must  be  independent  as  well  as 
intense  ;  impregnable  of  soul  in  right  or  wrong  ;  in  all 
fortunes  masters  of  their  own  fate ;  in  defeat  they  must 
ask  no  question ;  in  adversity  no  pity ;  in  suffering 
they  must  make  no  moan ;  if  their  hopes  are  struck, 
these  hopes  must  die  without  complaint,  and  find  a 
silent  burial  in  the  broken  heart.  The  beings  that 
Byron  conceived  in  fiction,  and  those  with  whom  he 
sympathized  in  history,  are  beings  of  turbulent,  but  of 
isolated  souls  ;  beings  that  struggle  and  that  suffer,  but 
that  cannot  be  subdued  ;  beings  with  whom  life  must 
cease  to  be  a  desire,  when  it  ceases  to  be  a  tumult. 
To  such  purpose  is  the  impassioned  confession  of  the 
Giaour : 

**  My  days  though  few,  have  passed  below 
In  much  of  joy,  but  more  of  woe, 
Yet  still  in  hours  of  love  or  strife 
I  've  'scaped  the  weariness  of  life  ; 
Now  leagued  with  friends,  now  girt  with  foes, 
I  loathed  the  languor  of  repose ; 
Now  nothing  left  to  love  or  hate ; 
No  more  with  hope  or  pride  elate, 
I  'd  rather  be  the  thing  that  crawls 
Most  noxious  o'er  a  dungeon's  walls, 


138  LECTURES  AND  ESSAYS. 

Than  pass  my  dull  unvarying  days 
Cpndemned  to  meditate  and  gaze. 
Yet  wakes  a  wish  within  my  breast 
For  rest  —  but  not  to  feel —  'tis  rest.'* 

This  force  of  inward  life  connected  with  a  most  happy 
aptitude  of  utterance,  renders  Byron  a  supreme  master 
of  language  and  description.  Of  all  English  poets,  he 
is  properly  the  most  eloquent.  Diction  and  thought 
with  Byron  are  not,  as  the  garment  and  the  body,  but 
as  the  body  and  the  soul,  mutually  intermingled  and 
coexistent,  melting  each  into  each,  and  thus  blended, 
forming  an  inseparable  and  a  living  totality.  Words 
answered  to  will,  and  every  word  was  the  conductor  of 
an  impulse  or  the  mirror  of  a  thought.  By  his  won- 
derful command  over  language,  Byron  combines  passion 
and  description  in  a  manner  which,  if  all  other  claims 
failed,  would  entitle  him  to  the  praise  of  a  special 
originality.  Creation  in  his  descriptive  passages  seems 
articulate.  The  elements  seem  fraught  with  human 
consciousness ;  and  human  consciousness  seems  to  as- 
sume the  might  of  the  elements.  The  tempest  lashes 
ocean  with  the  resentment  of  man's  anger ;  and  man 
rushes  against  his  fellow  with  the  fury  of  the  deep. 
Nor  is  Byron  less  powerful  in  the  expression  of  passion 
simply.  Scorn,  hate,  contempt,  derision,  come  in  a 
boiling  torrent  from  his  heated  breast,  with  a  vehemence 


THE  MORAL  SPIRIT  OF  BYRON's  GENIUS.  139 

which  will  not  be  impeded,  and  a  rapidity  which  leaves 
no  time  for  chill.  But  sentiments  nobler  than  these  came 
from  the  heart  of  Byron  to  his  words.  Whose  words 
more  than  Byron's  have  hymned  with  honor  the  memo- 
ries of  the  brave  ?  Whose  words  more  than  his  have 
chaunted  sadder  requiems  amidst  the  graves  of  heroes  > 
Whose  words  have  been  hurled  with  more  indignant 
strength  than  his,  at  tyrants  within  their  living  walls  of 
hirelings,  words,  that,  like  electric  fire,  glanced  along 
the  fetters  of  the  bound,  and  loosened,  if  they  did  not 
evade  their  chains  ?  Is  there  eloquence  more  inspiring, 
is  there  eloquence  more  exciting,  than  the  appeals  of 
Byron  to  the  Greeks  ?  Were  there  not  tones  from  this 
youthful  and  titled  Briton,  which  might  almost  stir 
Demosthenes  in  his  grave ;  and  could  he  have  arisen 
from  his  ashes,  would  he  not  rejoice  that  Greece,  even 
in  her  misery,  could  awaken  an  enthusiasm  kindred  to 
his  own  ? 

In  calling  Byron  an  eloquent  poet,  I  state  no"  vain 
distinction.  Poetry  may  not  be  eloquent,  as  eloquence 
may  not  be  poetical ;  and,  indeed,  eloquent  poetry  or 
poetical  eloquence  is  rarely  the  highest  of  its  kind. 
Poetry,  as  such,  may  be  complete  in  the  imagination, 
and  fulfill  its  office,  when  it  gratifies  the  sense  of 
beauty ;  but  eloquence  must  influence  the  judgment 
and  act  on  the  passions.     Eloquence  operates  within 


140  LECTURES  AND  ESSAYS. 

the  circle  of  realities,  treads  the  solid  globe,  and 
mingles  in  the  business  and  the  strifes  of  men  ;  but 
the  native  element  of  poetry  is  not  in  the  actual  but  the 
ideal.  Poetry  refines,  eloquence  must  arouse  ;  poetry 
exalts  erudition,  eloquence  governs  conviction.  Elo- 
quence is  not  science,  neither  is  it  fancy.  It  is  not 
logic  that  enkindles  souls ;  nor  is  it  simply  an  exhibition 
of  the  beautiful,  which  can  do  this.  No  ;  but  a  facility 
which,  rapidly  as  thought,  breathes  feelings,  while  they 
burn,  into  words.  Herein  Byron  transcended  every 
poet  of  his  time,  and  herein  he  is  the  most  eloquent. 
To  feel  the  difference  between  purely  imaginative 
poetry  and  eloquent  poetry,  we  need  only  read  in  con- 
trast a  passage  from  Spenser's  "  Faerie  Queene  "  and 
a  passage  from  Byron's  "  Childe  Harold." 

The  genius  of  Byron  exhibits  in  a  striking  manner 
the  conflict  of  the  ideal  with  the  limited  and  the  sen- 
sual. The  result  is  a  tone  of  dejection.  The  most 
common  life  has  an  ideal  which  looks  for  a  satisfaction 
which  the  limited  and  the  sensual  do  not  afford.  We 
begin  life,  however,  in  hoping  for  this  satisfaction  from 
the  sources  which  never  can  supply  it ;  and  though 
there  is  speedy  certainty  of  failure,  there  is  not  even  a 
late  certainty  of  wisdom.  This  delusion,  which  bewil- 
ders humanity  in  the  vain  endeavor  to  fill  immortal 
faculties  with  perishable   objects,  is  a  radical  and  a 


THE  MORAL  SPIRIT  OF  BYRON's  GENIUS.  141 

destructive  mistake.  It  is  a  central  cause  of  conflict 
in  the  moral  world  ;  a  central  cause  of  a  disorganized 
vitality,  and  therefore  of  many  crimes  and  many  sor- 
rows. If  the  most  common  men  soon  reach  apathy  in 
the  senses,  what  must  it  be  with  men  of  genius,  whose 
life  is  so  much  more  aspiring  and  intense  ?  What  must 
it  then  have  been  with  Byron,  whose  life,  even  among 
men  of  genius,  was  a  rapid  and  absorbing  life  ?  The 
issue  is  plain  in  his  personal  experience,  we  discern  it 
as  clearly  in  his  poetry. 

The  inveterate  self-consciousness  which  imbues  By- 
ron's personal  experience,  also  imbues  his  poetry, 
connected,  though  it  is,  with  unrivalled  power  and  ex- 
ceeding beauty.  Byron  saw  in  human  life  but  the 
extension  and  reproduction  of  his  own  existence.  This 
being  of  his  was  reflected  back  upon  himself  from  the 
universe.  His  own  existence  being  untoward,  creation, 
whether  of  spirit  or  of  matter,  seen  through  it,  ap- 
peared shrouded  in  guilt  and  sadness.  The  gaze  of 
Byron  was  on  himself,  yet  not  like  the  fabled  Nar- 
cissus, with  elated  vanity,  but  with  sullen  thought.  It 
was  not,  like  Narcissus,  on  beauty,  radiant  and  gentle, 
but  on  beauty  sombre  and  impassioned ;  it  was  not  a 
vision  from  circumscribed  and  placid  waters,  it  was  one 
of  huge  and  manifold  reflection,  from  the  depths  of 
ocean,  from  the  depths  of  heaven,  from  fiery  clouds, 


142   '         LECTURES  AND  ESSAYS. 

from  icy  mountains,  all  repeated  and  diversified  in  the 
kaleidescope  of  many-colored  passions.  The  Germans 
have  the  story  of  "  A  Man  without  a  Shadow  ; "  but 
Byron  was  a  man  of  a  thousand  shadows. 

This  reproduction  of  Byron's  own  character  in  his 
works,  was  so  natural  to  him,  that  he  was  not  aware  of 
it ;  and  hence,  I  have  no  doubt  that  his  anger  was 
severe  against  the  critics,  who  marked  it  as  one  of  his 
peculiarities.  Such  however  was  the  fact,  and  it  hin- 
dered him,  notwithstanding  his  splendid  genius,  from 
being  a  great  dramatic  poet.  He  did  not  conceive  of 
passion  in  its  universality,  he  did  not  conceive  of  it  as 
it  existed  in  other  minds,  separate  from  his  own  in 
character  and  situation.  To  understand  a  passion,  he 
needed  personal  and  direct  experience.  On  the  deck 
of  a  vessel  from  Constantinople,  he  found  a  dagger ; 
looking  at  it,  he  said  in  an  undertone,  "  I  should  like  to 
know  how  a  person  feels  after  committing  a  murder !  " 
''  The  intense  wish  to  explore  the  dark  passions,  thus 
expressed,  united,  says  Moore,  with  imagination,  at 
length  generated  the  power."  To  say  nothing  of  the 
melo-dramatic  affectation  implied  in  the  incident,  it  is 
not,  I  apprehend,  the  way  in  which  the  higher  imagina- 
tion would  have  expressed  itself.  A  creative  mind,  of 
the  more  elevated  order,  would  not  have  required  such 
individual  excitement.     Shakspeare,  I  conceive,  would 


143 


not,  and  he  unfolded  all  passions ;  of  all  passions  he 
most  powerfully  unfolded  the  darkest. 

The  progress  of  Byron's  genius  is  one  that  grows 
in  strength,  but  also  one  that  grows  in  fierceness  ;  one 
that,  at  every  stage,  leaves  happiness  and  the  light 
more  distant  in  the  retrospect.  Byron's  first  eminent 
effort  was  a  burst  of  youthful  anger.  That  over,  he 
deepens  on  from  sorrow  to  scorn.  The  predominant 
tone  of  his  poetry,  even  in  its  best  era,  is  that  of  de- 
spondency ;  and  whenever,  in  his  subsequent  produc- 
tions, he  is  most  gentle  and  most  human,  it  is  to  this 
tone  that  he  returns.  And  if  existence  were  indeed  as 
Byron  seemed  to  view  it,  I  see  not  how  any  could  prop- 
erly indulge  in  cheerfulness.  If  man  is  a  compilation 
of  worthless  atoms,  struck  out  by  chance,  or  shaped  by 
a  Power  who  despises  his  own  workmanship  ;  if  man's 
life  is  a  mockery,  a  phantasmagoria  of  cheats  and  de- 
ceivings ;  if  his  youth  is  a  bubble,  and  his  age  a  blank  ; 
if  his  affections  are  delusions ;  his  hopes  but  the  visions 
of  a  starveling,  the  seeming  paradise  which  the  fren- 
zied and  famished  mariner  pictures  in  the  ocean,  which 
will  ingulf  him ;  if  religious  aspiration,  moral  enthu- 
siasm, tender  and  disinterested  sentiments,  are  but  so 
many  follies  ;  if  the  godly  and  the  fair,  are  thus 
wrenched  away  from  our  trust ;  —  what  ought  we  else 
to  do,  than  bend  to  our  necessity  in  silence,  or  try  as 


144  LECTURES  AND  ESSAYS. 

best  we  may  in  the  passing  hour  to  forget  it.  A  dirge 
should  be  for  such  a  life,  and  not  an  anthem !  The 
heavens  that  canopy  our  globe  should  not  vex  us  with 
their  gentle  stars.  The  sun  should  not  be  so  flaming  a 
torch  over  our  funereal  dwelling.  The  trees  should 
not  rock  their  heads  so  gladly  in  the  wind ;  the  birds 
should  not  carol  so  sweetly  among  their  branches.  The 
flowers  are  too  brilliant  for  a  grave ;  they  should  have 
sadder  hues,  if  they  only  decorate  a  pathway  to  ob- 
livion. If  man  is  an  orphan  in  this  infinitude,  if  there 
is  no  shielding  about  him,  if  he  has  no  assurance  of 
spiritual  realities,  —  then  certainly  his  isolation  is  in- 
conceivably awful,  his  fate  is  in  the  midst  of  lies, 
existence  is  but  a  short  passage  from  silence  to  si- 
lence,— then,  certainly,  the  wretched  pilgrimage  should 
be  made  with  a  drooping  head,  and  a  melancholy  face. 
Such  doctrine  is  that  which  Byron  preaches,  and  he 
preaches  it  with  impressive  and  with  gloomy  power. 

"  'T  was  strange  ;  — in  youth  all  action  and  all  life, 
Burning  for  pleasure,  not  averse  from  strife  ;  — 
Woman,  the  field,  the  ocean,  all  that  gave 
Promise  of  gladness,  peril  of  a  grave, 
In  turn  he  tried  ;  he  ransacked  all  below, 
And  found  his  recompense  in  joy  and  woe,  — 
No  tame,  trite  medium,  —  for  his  feelings  sought 
In  that  intenseness,  an  escape  from  thought. 


THE  MORAL  SPIRIT  OF  BYRON's  GENIUS.  145 

The  tempest  of  his  heart  in  scorn  had  gazed 
On  that  the  feeble  elements  had  raised  ; 
The  rapture  of  his  heart  had  looked  on  high, 
And  asked,  if  greater  dwelt  beyond  the  sky. 
Chained  to  excess,  the  love  of  each  extreme, 
How  woke  he  from  the  wildness  of  that  dream ! 
Alas,  he  told  not ;  but  he  did  awake. 
To  curse  the  withered  heart,  that  would  not  break." 

These  lines  may  stand  as  a  picture  of  Byron  him- 
self; but,  if  the  portrait  should  be  disputed,  we  take 
the  following,  as  a  statement  of  his  philosophy.  If 
philosophy  can  be  more  cheerless,  more  sorrowful, 
more  despairing,  then,  we  may  take  the  atheist's  epi- 
taph of  "  eternal  sleep,"  as  the  best  consolation  in 
human  history.     Here  is  our  poet's  idea  of  life  : 

"  We  wither  from  our  youth,  we  gasp  away 
Sick,  —  sick  ;  unfound  the  boon,  unslaked  the  thirst, 
Tliough  to  the  last,  in  verge  of  our  decay. 
Some  phantom  lures,  such  as  we  sought  at  first ; 
But  all  too  late  ;  so,  are  we  doubly  curst. 
Love,  fame,  ambition,  avarice,  't  is  the  same,  — 
Each  idle,  —  and  all  ill,  —  and  none  the  worst ;  — 
For  all  are  meteors  with  a  different  name, 
And  death  the  sable  smoke,  where  vanishes  the  flame." 

Despondency  was  the  natural  issue  of  a  genius  like 
Byron's,   with    Byron's    experience.      The    wretched 

VOL.    I.  10 


146  LECTTTRES   AND  ESSAYS. 

inadequacy  of  that  experience  could  not  long  be  con- 
cealed. The  cup  of  sensualism,  drunk,  at  first,  with 
zest,  and  afterwards  from  habit,  when  its  madness 
sobered,  only  left  disgust.  Celebrity  passed  from  en- 
thusiasm to  fashion;  and  while  praises,  like  a  hollow 
wind,  fell  empty  on  his  ear,  thought  strove  vainly  in 
his  soul  with  destiny,  as  a  boiling  sea  in  a  rayless 
cavern,  that  breaks  in  fury  against  the  rocky  barriers 
which  it  cannot  burst.  Passion,  divested  of  sentiment, 
lost  all  that  concealed  its  grossness.  Affections  were  a 
waste.  Byron  felt  with  agony  the  insufficiency  of  the 
tangible  and  the  visible ;  and  his  agony  was  the  more 
poignant,  that  he  had  nothing  in  their  place.  He  could 
weigh,  in  the  balance  of  a  keen  philosophy,  the  plea- 
sures for  which  men  toil,  and  the  prizes  for  which  they 
fight ;  he  could  see  that  they  were  lighter  than  vanity. 
He  was  not  the  dupe  of  their  follies,  and  yet  he  did  not 
teach  them  wisdom.  He  was  not  an  associate  in  their 
idolatries,  and  yet  he  did  not  seek  a  purer  worship.  He 
was  an  unsparing  Iconaclast ;  but, when  the  temple  was 
bare  which  he  had  dismantled,  and  the  images  which 
he  had  broken  lay  in  fragments  on  the  floor,  he  was 
himself  alone  in  the  wreck,  with  only  the  solitary  con- 
sciousness of  power,  and  the  echoes  of  his  own  dirge 
reverberating  through  the  vacant  spaces.  Genius,  to 
enjoy  and  to  communicate  happy  and  exalting  life,  must 


147 


have  union  with  the  moral  and  the  spiritual ;  with  the 
truth  which  they  inspire  ;  with  the  beauty  which  they 
sanctify.  These  belong  to  the  soul's  moral  and  pro- 
gressive being ;  and  these,  good  and  fair  for  ever,  no 
genius  can  exhaust,  and  no  genius  can  transcend. 
Genius,  therefore,  to  ask  in  freedom,  and  in  a  right 
direction,  must  be  of  faith,  and  love,  and  hope ;  of  the 
faith  which  can  reverence,  and  can  trust ;  of  the  love 
which  can  receive  and  give ;  of  the  hope  which  faith 
and  love  sustain,  which  gleams  cheeringly  over  the 
path  of  humanity,  and  which,  by  large  sympathy,  has 
large  wisdom.  These  are  the  principles  which  connect 
us  with  the  universe  of  highest  thought,  and  of  most 
enduring  beauty.  It  is  by  faith,  that  poetry,  as  well  as 
devotion,  soars  above  this  dull  earth  ;  that  imagination 
breaks  through  its  clouds,  breathes  a  purer  air,  and 
lives  in  a  softer  light.  It  is  love  that  gives  the  poet  the 
whole  heart  of  man  ;  and  it  is  by  love  that  he  speaks 
to  the  whole  heart  of  man  for  ever.  Hope,  which  is 
but  our  ideal  future,  lives  even  in  our  most  prosaic  ex- 
perience, and  is  a  needful  solace  to  our  daily  toils.  We 
can  then  but  ill  spare  it  from  our  poetic  dreams.  We 
can  but  ill  endure,  among  so  many  sad  realities,  to  rob 
anticipation  of  its  pleasant  visions. 

In  speaking  thus,  I  would  not  imply  that  life  can  be 
always   sunshine.     By  no   means.     Its  afflictions  are 


148  ;lectures  and  essays. 

many  ;  they  are  universal ;  they  are  inevitable.  Be- 
cause they  are  so,  life  can  afford  to  lose  none  of  its  alle- 
viations. Much  that  belongs  merely  to  the  present,  it 
must  of  necessity  lose.  Wretched  it  is  indeed,  if  it  must 
likewise  resign  the  future.  Much  will  be  carried  from 
us,  as  our  years  decline,  which  years  that  come  never 
can  restore.  Hours  there  are,  brief,  happy  hours,  in 
experience,  which  may  not  be  forgotten,  but  are  no  more 
to  be  renewed.  They  can  be  but  once,  and  the  effort 
to  repeat,  is  to  destroy  them.  They  go  to  the  past  as  a 
dream ;  they  are  no  more,  except  that  now  and  then 
their  shadows  mock  us  through  the  mist  of  days.  Pure 
enjoyments,  and  bright  expectancies,  the  most  meagre 
souls  have  known  some  time  in  their  existence  ;  and 
the  most  meagre  souls,  in  feeling  that  they  shall  never 
know  them  again,  are  capable  of  deep  regret.  They 
are  as  a  melody  when  the  lute  is  broken ;  they  are  as 
a  tale  which  the  minstrel  tells,  —  and  dies.  The  inan- 
imate universe  itself,  seems  to  undergo  the  changes  of 
our  own  spirits,  and  to  sympathize  with  the  transitions 
of  our  experience.  The  stars,  it  is  true,  rise  as  brightly 
in  the  heavens,  the  flowers  spring  as  lovely  from  the 
earth,  the  woodlands  bloom  as  freshly  as  before  ;  but 
oh,  the  glory  and  the  joy  within,  the  fancy  and  the 
hope,  which  made  the  stars  more  beautiful,  and  the 
flowers  more  graceful,  and  the  woods  more  elysian, 


149 


and  the  birds  more  musical,  will  not  last  with  passing 
suns,  nor  come  back  again  with  returning  seasons.  I 
do  not  decry  this  characteristic  of  our  nature.  I  do  not 
decry  the  genius  which  has  affinity  with  it,  and  appeals 
to  it.  A  high  and  solemn  melancholy  is  the  sighing 
of  our  immortality ;  it  is  the  struggle  of  a  divine  aspi- 
ration with  our  earthly  imperfections.  The  capacity  of 
sorrow  belongs  to  our  grandeur ;  and  the  loftiest  of  our 
race  are  those  who  have  had  the  profoundest  grief; 
because  they  have  had  the  profoundest  sympathies. 
There  is  a  sadness  which  is  an  attribute  of  our  spiritual 
humanity ;  and  it  is  only  when  this  spiritual  humanity 
is  dormant,  that  misery  approaches  the  limitation  of 
simple  physical  suffering  or  physical  want.  To  be 
happy  as  moral  and  intellectual  beings,  we  must  feel 
the  joy  which  has  its  centre  in  the  soul ;  from  that 
centre  springs  also  the  anguish  which  testifies  our 
exaltation.  This  very  sorrow  of  ours  is  one  of  the 
strongest  reasons  why  nothing  should  dissociate  the 
soul  from  principles  which  are  not  dependent  on  exter- 
nals, but  which,  when  suns  grow  dim,  will  come  out 
into  brighter  revelation. 

Take  away  faith  in  the  spiritual,  and  an  unhappy 
mind  can  find  much  in  visible  existence  to  nourish  a 
philosophy  of  despair.  Byron  found  abundant  food  in 
history,  in  his  own  age,  and  in  his  own  experience,  to 


150  LECTURES  AND  ESSAYS. 

sustain  such  a  philosophy.  It  is  not  my  purpose  to 
maintain,  that  even  within  narrow  limits  his  philosophy 
was  legitimately  constructed  ;  but  life  and  events,  con- 
sidered with  the  interpretation  of  his  morbid  fancy, 
were  consistent  enough  with  his  system.  To  which 
side  soever  he  turned,  the  instabihty  of  grandeur,  the 
transiency  of  power,  the  vanity  of  desire  were  before 
him  ;  they  were  alike  evident  on  the  hoary  tombs  of 
empires,  and  on  their  new-made  graves.  When  he 
had  mused  in  the  Parthenon  or  Colliseum,  in  monastic 
abbey  or  kingly  hall,  he  came  forth  from  the  world  of 
the  dead  to  find  a  like  mortality  in  the  world  of  the 
living.  It  was  not  that  Greece,  in  her  roofless  temples 
and  her  shattered  statues,  was  covered  with  the  dust  of 
her  former  beauty.  It  was  not  that  Rome,  in  her  wil- 
derness of  ruins,  presented  but  the  huge,  grim  skeleton 
of  her  giant-corpse.  The  modern  Europe  of  Byron's 
own  observation  was  a  stage  of  shifting  scenes.  Thrones 
had  been  pulled  down  in  blood  ;  in  blood  were  thrones 
built  up  ;  and  the  crash  of  the  new  almost  mingled 
with  that  of  the  old.  The  hopes  of  liberty  grew  faint 
in  the  crimes  of  anarchy  or  the  chains  of  despotism. 
Ambition  of  colossal  stride,  that  walked  in  ruin,  that 
marked  its  way  in  prints  of  death,  was  itself  struck 
down  on  Waterloo  ;  and  ere  the  grass  was  green  upon 
the  moistened   earth,  Byron  was   there  to  chaunt  its 


THE  MORAL  SPIRIT  OF  BYRON's  GENITTS.  151 

elegy.  The  man  of  Destiny,  the  man  whose  name 
was  "  Terror,"  was  despoiled  in  the  fortune  of  an 
hour ;  and  Byron,  who  had  watched  his  star  with 
admiration,  as  it  climbed  in  fiery  triumph  to  its  zenith 
through  vapors  and  through  clouds  of  tears,  saw  its 
beams  dwindle  to  a  narrow  rock  ;  these  beams  which 
had  so  long  showered  plagues  and  death  upon  the 
nations.  Here  was  mere  man  in  his  pomp  and  nothing- 
ness ;  here  he  was  for  Byron's  spirit  and  Byron's 
philosophy ;  for  his  complaint  and  sarcasm,  for  his 
despondency  and  for  his  mockery. 

But  a  strong  soul  like  Byron's  could  never  waste 
itself  in  despondency,  could  never  rest  in  despondency. 
The  aspirations  which  do  not  bear  a  strong  soul  to 
content,  madden  it  to  resistance.  The  first  expression 
of  despair  is  complaint,  the  next  is  defiance.  When 
enjoyments  fail  of  zest ;  when  desire  has  turned  to  bit- 
terness ;  when  disappointment  is  tired  of  bewailings ; 
when  memory,  robbed  of  feeling,  has  lost  the  tenderness 
of  regret,  a  proud  and  determined  spirit  will  not  brook 
submission,  and  will  choose  nothing  but  combat.  Thus 
it  is  in  the  genius  of  Byron ;  the  melancholy  of  "  Childe 
Harold "  darkens  into  the  impiety  of  "  Cain "  ;  the 
reckless  criticism  of  "  The  English  Bards  and  Scotch 
Reviewers,"  hardens  into  the  cynical  ribaldry  of  "  Don 
Juan."     Some  unthinking  persons  connect  a  sort  of 


152  LECTURES  AND  ESSAYS. 

dignity  with  mere  self-will.  This  is  a  low  mistake. 
No  principle  is  more  noble,  as  there  is  none  more  holy, 
than  that  of  a  true  obedience.  Every  being  is  excel- 
lent, as  it  is  faithful  to  the  law  of  its  existence.  It  is 
by  this  fidelity  in  the  material  universe,  that  atom  holds 
to  atom  in  solid  worlds  and  in  boundless  systems.  It 
is  by  this  fidelity  in  the  moral  universe,  that  soul  holds 
to  soul  in  the  unity  of  families  and  the  order  of  nations. 
Subvert  this  fidelity,  and  where  would  be  beauty  ? 
Where  even  would  be  existence  ?  Physical  or  moral 
anarchy  must  soon  reach  its  own  extinction,  in  the 
restoration  of  order,  or  the  annihilation  of  the  worlds. 
There  would,  without  obedience,  be  no  kindred  to 
create  a  home  ;  no  law  to  create  a  state  ;  there  would 
be  no  conscience  to  inspire  right ;  no  faifh  to  apprehend 
religion ;  humanity  there  could  be  none,  nor  even  the 
earth  to  supply  it  with  a  dwelling. 

The  last  stage  of  Byron's  genius  developed  with 
most  potent  strength  the  element  of  derision.  Derision 
is  the  worst  abuse  of  genius  ;  and  the  worst  derision  is 
derision  of  humanity.  Byron  went  on  more  and  more 
to  indulge  this  acrid  temper.  He  joined  the  maligners 
of  our  species ;  he  trifled  with  our  most  sacred  feel- 
ings ;  he  lacerated  the  most  cherished  sensibilities,  and 
in  the  cruel  play  of  power,  he  ridiculed  the  wretches 
whom  he  tortured.     This  is  the  skepticism  of  inhu- 


THE  MOEAL  SPIRIT  OF  BYRON's  GENIUS.  153 

manity,  the  skepticism  of  contempt ;  of  all  unbelief, 
the  most  repulsive  and  the  most  evil.  There  is  a 
skepticism  which  springs  from  sympathy ;  call  the 
sympathy  morbid,  if  you  will,  it  is  amiable.  It  may  be 
in  error,  but  there  is  kindness  at  the  foundation  of  its 
mistake.  Nor  is  it  without  considerable  extenuation. 
To  a  mind  of  more  benevolence  than  faith,  there  ap- 
pears much  in  the  world  that  is  startling  and  inexplica- 
ble. Suffering  and  guilt,  the  tragedies  of  passion,  the 
wrongs  inflicted,  and  the  wrongs  endured,  the  mysteries 
of  destitution,  the  pangs  of  sin,  the  terrible  necessity 
which  so  often  connects  poverty  with  every  other  woe, 
these  evils,  to  many  almost  a  destiny,  which  birth  is  to 
begin,  and  life  is  to  fulfill,  will  sometimes  press  fear- 
fully on  the  thoughts  of  the  most  believing.  There  is 
a  moral  and  sympathetic  imagination,  which  some  men 
have  in  great  activity.  They  wander,  with  a  singular 
faculty  of  realization,  among  the  inequalities  of  life 
and  the  miseries  of  earth.  They  conceive  vividly  of 
sorrow ;  they  are  wounded  in  the  pain  of  others,  and 
they  cannot  rest.  They  ponder  on  it;  they  muse 
over  it ;  and  they  dream  ;  and  their  hearts  tremble 
in  doubt,  while  they  bleed  in  pity.  The  problem  of 
this  life  must  often  bring  painful  suspense  to  a  sen- 
sitive mind  impatient  for  the  solution.  And  is  not 
this  doubt  better  than  the  apathy  which  often  claims 


154  LECTURES  AND  ESSAYS. 

the  name  of  faith,  and  to  which  the  name  is  too  readily 
conceded  ?  An  apathy  which  does  all  that  the  ritual 
requires,  and  is  at  peace  in  forms  ;  which  has  not  feel- 
ing enough  to  hesitate,  which  walks  its  beaten  path  of 
hard  convention,  and  looks  neither  to  the  right  nor  to 
the  left ;  which  wraps  itself  around  in  the  impenetrable 
cloak  of  Pharisaism,  leaving  no  chink  to  admit  a  stray 
sensibility  to  annoy  its  complacency,  or  to  disturb 
its  comfort ;  which  can  pass  by  plundered,  prostrate, 
and  wounded  man,  without  the  change  of  a  muscle  or 
the  wrinkle  of  a  robe.  But  a  skepticism  of  scorn  is 
yet  worse  than  apathy  ;  a  skepticism  which  originates 
in  bitterness,  and  goes  forth  in  misanthropy.  It  is  but 
justice  to  say  of  Byron's  derision,  that  it  was  probably 
more  in  affectation  than  asperity,  that  his  sarcastic 
mirth  was  rather  from  a  cheerless  than  a  callous  heart ; 
that  in  a  great  degree,  it  was  the  device  of  a  jaded 
spirit  to  conceal  the  havoc  of  violent  emotion. 

Let  it  not  be  inferred  from  the  tenor  of  these  re- 
marks, that  I  undervalue  the  genius  of  Byron ;  such 
an  inference  would  do  me  injustice.  My  object,  as  I 
have  said,  has  not  been  to  present  a  critical  estimate^ 
and  had  I  ability  to  make  it,  it  is  now  needless.  My 
admiration  for  the  poetic  genius  of  Byron  would  satisfy 
his  most  enthusiastic  devotee.  The  grandeur  of  it,  in 
its  kind,   is   stupendous.     It   displays   upon   occasions- 


155 


a  strength  which  is  almost  superhuman  ;  yet  melody 
and  grace  are  as  much  its  character  as  strength.  The 
perception  of  beauty  was  in  Byron  almost  an  original 
sense  ;  beauty  in  all  its  forms,  in  external  nature,  and 
in  the  living  world.  Even  when  his  poetry  dejects,  it 
enchants  us  ;  it  often  offends,  but  it  always  moves.  If 
Byron's  poetry  had  no  other  excellence,  its  vitality  will 
always  secure  it  favor.  What  life  in  its  descriptions ! 
They  people  the  past.  The  structures  of  ancient  days 
arise  at  the  poet's  summons,  and  living  figures  throng 
the  solitude,  and  living  voices  break  the  silence.  The 
pale  marble  quickens  to  emotion  ;  and  in  the  poet's 
vision,  the  sculptor's  stone  is  turned  to  flesh.  .We  see 
through  his  words  the  scorn  of  Apollo's  lip,  we  glow  in 
the  fire  of  his  eye  ;  Venus  puts  on  the  light  of  thought, 
with  the  grace  of  beauty  ;  the  gladiator  pants  to  death. 

Byron's  poetry  is  eminently  reflective.  Doubting 
and  desponding  as  it  is,  it  yet  takes  interest  from  the 
solemn  relations  of  humanity.  Though  not  hopefully, 
i|  deals  with  serious  concerns,  —  the  grave,  passion, 
futurity,  —  and  if  we  are  not  cheered,  we  are  at  least 
made  thoughtful.  The  fourth  canto  of  "  Childe  Harold  " 
is  a  triumph  of  serious  poetry.  Solemn  music,  it 
comes  to  the  spirit  in  harmonies  of  sadness  ;  it  comes 
to  the  heart  in  every  tone  which  sounds  the  deepest  to 
our  thoughts,  of  creation  or  of  destiny. 


156  LECTURES  AND  ESSAYS. 

Byron,  in  the  best  moods  of  his  genius,  in  those 
moods  over  which  the  mocking  fiend  of  cynicism  has 
no  c6ntrol,  writes  with  a  most  affecting  and  solemn 
pathos.  That  impassioned  energy,  which  fixed  atten- 
tion on  its  opposite,  of  absolute  rest ;  that  fierce  dis- 
content of  blood  and  brain,  which  can  find  nothing  like 
such  rest  in  life,  made  intense  to  the  utmost,  by  a 
lonely  and  dark  imagination,  brought  the  sad  associa- 
tions suggested  by  the  tomb  into  frequent  contact  with 
Byron's  spirit.  Death  is,  accordingly,  a  favorite  topic 
with  Byron  ;  and  his  pictures  of  it,  though  wanting  in 
the  elements  which  cast  over  death  the  deepest  tragedy 
or  the  purest  beauty,  that  is,  a  profoundly  dramatic 
force,  or  the  trust  of  a  Christian  faith,  are  yet  exceed- 
ingly impressive.  The  closing  hours  of  Manfred  ;  the 
Prisoner  of  Chillon's  end,  as  described  by  his  brother ; 
the  sombre  death  of  Lara  ;  the  lonely  death  of  Medora ; 
the  disruption  of  young  life  in  Zulieka  and  Haidee,  are 
drawn  with  surpassing  power. 

Woman  is  also  a  topic  around  which  Byron  has  lav- 
ished an  immense  wealth  of  fancy.  But  the  woman  of 
Byron's  poetry  is  a  woman  of  the  East  and  of  the 
South  ;  not  woman  of  the  home,  but  woman  of  the 
sun.  Woman,  in  these  burning  climes,  and  with  the 
associations  which  belong  to  them,  suited  his  impetuous 
temper  and  his  untrammelled  imagination.     Woman, 


THE  MORAL  SPIRIT  OF  BYRON's  GENIUS.  157 

thus  regarded,  he  paints  with  intense  warmth  of  color- 
ing ;  yet  passion  is  so  encircled  in  gorgeous  hues,  so 
decked  with  graces  of  the  ideal,  that,  if  not  free  from 
evil,  it  is,  at  least,  free  from  coarseness.  While  woman 
is  in  the  fairness  of  youth  and  the  splendor  of  loveliness, 
no  poet  can  surpass  Byron  in  the  description  of  her ; 
and  this  he  has  manifested  in  a  series  of  unrivalled 
delineations,  unrivalled  for  delicacy  and  beauty ;  of 
Medora,  for  instance,  with  her  passive  enthusiasm  ;  of 
the  Maid  of  Saragossa,  with  her  daring  meekness ;  of 
Haidee,  with  her  wild  delight ;  of  Aurora  Raby,  with 
her  saintly  sweetness.  Byron,  however,  does  not  often 
reach  the  moral  sublime  in  womanhood  ;  he  does  not 
reveal  the  heart  of  woman  in  many  of  heroic  but  unro- 
mantic  relations.  He  does  not  show  it  to  us  in  the  wife 
growing  more  into  the  beauty  of  faith,  as  it  sobers  from 
the  raptures  of  youth.  He  does  not  show  it  to  us  in 
the  mother,  true  to  her  mission  with  the  care  and  fidelity 
of  Heaven.  He  does  not  show  it  to  us  in  age  venera- 
ble in  holiness,  when  the  eye  that  was  as  morning  light 
is  dull  with  years ;  when  the  hair  is  white,  that  once 
was  golden  as  the  sun ;  when  hope,  long  purified  in 
trial  and  in  duty,  has  transferred  its  all,  from  this  world 
to  the  skies.  It  does  not  show  it  to  us  in  martyr- 
poverty,  struggling  in  want  and  silence ;  wasting  the 
bloom  of  life  in  toil  and  sorrow ;  alleviating  the  grief  of 


158  LECTURES  AND  ESSAYS. 

Others,  and  not  complaining  of  its  own  ;  bearing  in  its 
might  of  resignation  the  crushings  of  affliction  that 
break  the  strong  man  to  pieces. 

Cursory  as  are  these  remarks,  I  cannot  omit  from 
them  some  reference  to  the  conditions  of  society  which 
surrounded  Byron.  The  short  life  of  Byron  was  cast 
in  one  of  the  most  eventful  eras  which  history  records. 
The  beginning  of  his  life  was  on  the  margin  of  the 
French  revolution,  and  the  close  of  it  was  a  little  later 
than  the  fall  of  Bonaparte.  Byron  commenced  author- 
ship with  the  century,  and  ere  a  quarter  of  that  century 
was  gone,  Byron  had  expired.  These  were  years  of 
doubt  and  passion,  of  passion  terrible  and  appalling. 
The  hearts  of  nations  were  disturbed.  Countries  that 
long  had  slept  awakened  in  dismay  ;  they  started  from 
nightmare  to  madness.  Irreverence  took  place  of  faith ; 
and  the  argument  from  tradition  lost  its  force  for  either 
religion  or  government.  Conflict  profound  and  univer- 
sal agitated  Europe  ;  conflict  of  ranks,  of  sentiments, 
of  institutions,  of  theories,  the  final  result  being  com- 
monly in  physical  carnage. 

Literature,  with  certain  limitations,  is  the  exponent 
of  the  age,  and  therefore  corresponds  to  it.  Social 
revolutions  are,  therefore,  the  periods  of  impulsive 
literature.  Dante  arose  amidst  the  struggles  of  Italian 
parties.     Milton  was  the   austere   genius   of  English 


THE  MOKAL  SPIEIT  OF  BYRON'S  GENIUS.  159 

republicanism.  Luther  came  with  the  Reformation. 
Shakspeare,  Bacon,  and  a  host  of  others,  came  soon 
after.  Creation  follows  dissolution  ;  for  with  man, 
creation  is  but  reconstruction.  Convention  succeeds 
creation  ;  for  imitation  comes  after  invention,  and  imi- 
tation is  the  soul  of  custom.  The  revolution,  there- 
fore, which  annihilates  custom,  necessitates  invention.  ' 
Hence  it  is,  that  almost  every  transition  in  government 
or  society  is  succeeded  by  originality  in  literature. 
Much  there  is  in  literature,  as  in  other  things,  which  is 
not  a  spirit,  but  an  occupation  ;  not  a  mission,  but  a 
trade.  Many  take  for  granted  what  others  have  said 
before  them,  and  they  are  vexed  if  these  things  are 
contradicted.  Many  live  by  what  others  before  them 
have  done,  and  they  are  angry  if  these  things  are  over- 
turned. So  it  is  in  all  that  constitutes  our  social  life ; 
in  government,  in  creed,  in  philosophy,  in  letters.  The 
world,  however,  moves  on  in  the  way  of  Providence, 
independently  of  men's  theories  and  opinions.  There 
is  a  vitality  in  truth  which  cannot  be  crushed  by  men's 
fightings,  and  which  does  not  die  with  dissolving 
systems.  Monarchies  expire,  but  government  exists; 
dynasties  perish,  but  rulers  are  never  dead ;  churches 
are  impoverished,  hierarchies  are  humbled,  but  religion 
is  not  extinguished. 

Change  there  is  constantly  in  t^e  form  of  life,  but 


160  LECTURES  AND  ESSAYS. 

never  its  destruction.  What  ought  to  exist  must  exist. 
Kings,  priests,  and  prophets,  and  workers,  the  world 
has,  and  must  have  for  ever.  True  kings  there  are, 
kings  of  men,  whose  royalty  is  not  in  costume,  whose 
majesty  is  not  in  pageants ;  and  these  kings  have  a 
greatness  which  is  not  affected  by  the  fall  of  empires 
or  the  wreck  of  thrones.  True  priests  there  are,  whose 
consecration  is  not  in  the  visible  ceremony,  but  in 
the  inward  preparation,  whose  mission  is  as  lasting 
and  as  wide  as  man  ;  and  though  altars  be  desecrated, 
and  though  shrines  be  torn,  these  priests  have  an 
anointing  which  no  disruptions  can  efface,  an  authority 
which  no  violence  can  despoil.  True  prophets  there 
are,  who  will  not  prolong  an  echo  when  the  sense  is 
dead,  who  wait  in  silence  for  the  living  speech,  who 
speak  it  when  it  comes,  and  speak  it  with  enkindled 
lips.  True  workers  there  are,  who,  through  evil  report 
and  good,  but  commonly  with  more  of  the  evil  than  the 
good,  still  keep  busy  for  their  thankless  fellows,  and 
when  their  task  is  done,  lay  their  tortured  or  their  worn 
frames  where  men  will  weep  over  the  worth  which 
they  heeded  not,  while  it  dwelt  amongst  them.  Byron 
was  eminently  a  man  of  the  age  in  its  destructive 
tendencies.  He  was  not  the  king  of  it,  for  he  originated 
and  he  governed  no  great  movement ;  he  was  not  the 
priest  of  it,  for  he  had  no  faith  and  no  reverence  ;  he 


THE  MORAL  SPIRIT  OF  BYRON's  GENIUS.  161 

was  not  the  prophet  of  it,  for  he  had  no  hope  in  its 
advancement ;  he  was  not  a  worker  in  it,  for  he  joined 
with  no  earnest  heart  in  any  of  the  great  exertions  of 
philanthropy,  which  rendered  his  time  an  era  in  man's 
history.  He  was  simply  the  pilgrim  of  the  age,  walking 
through  its  waste  places  with  a  solitary  spirit,  and 
carrying  into  the  desolate  ruins  of  the  past,  the  morbid 
passions  of  the  present. 

The  turbulent  agitation  with  which  the  poetry  of 
Byron  sympathized  has  not  yet  subsided.  The  ten- 
dencies which  gave  that  poetry  its  impulse,  are  still 
active.  They  belong  to  the  force  of  the  free  life, 
which  lies  at  the  basis  of  modern  civilization,  which 
daily  gains  in  extent,  and  gains  in  strength.  The  au- 
thority of  tradition  becomes  enfeebled  before  the  power 
of  action,  and  the  voice  of  inquiry  has  broken  the 
slumbers  of  submission.  Thoughts  are  going  forth  in 
many  directions,  and  each  thought  has  its  mission  and 
finds  it.  Genius  has  not  deserted  the  arts  which  give 
existence  enjoyment,  and  give  it  grace  ;  but  it  has 
drawn  the  ideal  more  into  union  with  emotion,  and 
awakened  the  sentiment  of  sublimity  in  the  grandeur 
of  the  useful.  It  has  bored  through  solid  rocks,  and 
made  pathways  far  from  the  light  of  stars  or  sun.  It 
has  chained  precipice  to  precipice,  and  hung  bridges  in 
mid-air  over  the  boiling  torrent.     It  has  levelled  moun- 

VOL.  I.  11 


162  LECTURES  AND  ESSAYS. 

tains,  and  exalted  valleys.  It  has  assumed  dominion 
over  the  storm,  and  become  independent  of  the  winds. 
It  has  made  the  ocean  a  ferry,  and  spanned  continents 
from  border  to  border  with  a  grasp  of  iron.  It  has 
made  the  extremities  of  earth  adjacent  neighborhoods. 
It  has  originated  new  relations  of  man  to  time,  to  space, 
and  to  labor.  It  has  opened  a  future  for  speculation, 
in  which  the  actual  results  are  likely  to  transcend  for 
ever  the  boldest  dreams.  The  time  is  not  now,  and  is 
not  to  be,  when  the  secluded  cloister  wins  the  student 
to  its  shade ;  when  the  cathedral  rises  into  solemn 
majesty  through  the  slow  growth  of  a  century ;  when 
the  artist's  musings  are  of  loveliness  that  lives  in 
heaven.  The  serene  faces  of  saintly  tranquillity  that 
look  down  upon  us  from  ancient  canvass  with  Sab- 
bath stillness,  have  no  alliance  with  the  practical  and 
the  passionate  tendencies  of  modern  genius.  But 
let  not  conservative  taste  complain,  as  if  we  had 
nothing  in  their  place.  Instead  of  the  cathedral,  we 
have  the  printing  press ;  instead  of  the  cloister,  we 
have  the  school.  We  take  not  our  ideas  from  moveless 
structures  of  symbolic  stone,  or  from  storied  designings 
on  colored  canvass ;  thought  is  rendered  imperisha- 
ble as  letters,  and  letters  now  are  as  imperishable  as 
man. 

Elliott,  Byron,  and  Wordsworth  are  three  poets  very 


163 


different  from  each  other;  yet  they  manifest  distinct 
tendencies  which  belong  to  their  era. 

Elliott,  the  Corn-law  Rhymer,  is  the  bard  of  manu- 
facturing masses.  In  him  is  the  cry  of  their  want,  and 
the  cry  of  their  strength.  Poetry  in  Elliott  is  an  appeal 
from  starvation.  Elliott's  spirit  is  uneasy,  dark,  dis- 
contented, impassioned  ;  but  it  is  uneasy  for  the  poor, 
dark  with  their  sorrows,  discontented  with  their  lot,  and 
impassioned  for  their  wrongs.  Elliott  is  the  poet  of 
toilsmen,  of  men  who  ask  not  for  luxury,  but  life. 

Byron,  on  the  contrary,  is  the  poet  of  those  who 
have  exhausted  luxury,  and  wearied  of  life ;  of  those, 
to  whom  leisure  has  become  a  slavery,  and  indolence 
a  curse  ;  to  whom  abundance  has  become  satiety,  and 
pleasure  sickness  ;  of  those,  to  whom  existence  on  this 
side  of  the  grave  is  dreary,  and  all  on  the  other  side  a 
blank. 

The  world  to  Elliott  is  a  workhouse  ;  to  Byron,  it  is  a 
banquet-hall,  with  the  feast  concluded  ;  to  Wordsworth, 
it  is  a  place  of  trial  and  discipline.  Away  from  the 
heat  of  the  forge  and  the  noise  of  the  factory  ;  away 
from  the  din  of  the  passions  and  the  laugh  of  the  revel, 
he  meditates  on  God,  where  stars  are  in  the  lake,  and 
where  flowers  are  in  the  grass  ;  he  muses  on  destiny 
and  immortality,  where  human  dust  lies  silently  amidst 
the  mountains.     Elliott,  however,  is  nearer  to  the  poor 


164  LECTURES  AND  ESSAYS. 

than  Wordsworth.  Wordsworth  condescends  to  the 
poor ;  Elliott  takes  his  place  among  them.  Words- 
worth is  their  friend ;  Elliott  is  their  fellow.  Words- 
worth pities  their  sufferings  ;  Elliott  feels  them.  The 
voice  of  the  one  is  that  of  sympathy ;  the  voice  of  the 
other  is  that  of  experience. 

And  these  three  poets  do  not  inaptly  symbolize  con- 
ditions of  the  individual  life.  Work  we  must,  pleasure 
we  desire  ;  and  after  work  and  pleasure,  we  long  for 
rest  and  faith.  All  of  us  have  material  wants,  and 
most  of  us  the  necessity  of  toil ;  but  then,  we  ask  for 
pleasure.  Pleasure,  however,  is  short  and  changeful. 
It  soon  fatigues,  and  then  we  mourn  and  despond.  At 
last  we  supplicate  for  peace  as  the  highest  boon  of 
existence.  But  labor  has  its  alleviations,  and  has  its 
recompense.  Upon  the  path  of  the  most  toiling  there 
is  many  a  sweet  and  quiet  resting  place,  verdant  spots 
decked  with  flowers,  refreshed  with  streams,  where, 
if  we  choose,  if  our  inordinate  discontents  will  let  us, 
we  may  bask  in  gladness,  and  forget  our  cares.  Our 
being  has  much  of  sorrow,  but  so  it  has  passages  of 
happiness  unspeakable  ;  the  innocence  of  childhood, 
the  hopes  of  youth,  the  nobility  of  friendship,  the  gene- 
rosity of  love,  the  bliss  of  virtue.  Byron's  poetry,  it  is 
said,  has  a  tendency  to  sadden  us.  If  it  saddened  us 
in  the  right  way,  that  were  no  objection.     Sadness  is 


THE  MORAL  SPIRIT  OF  BYRON's  GENIUS.  165 

not  always  evil,  and  sometimes  it  is  wisdom.  But 
there  are  things  to  cheer  us,  things  better  than  Byron's 
poetry,  better  than  any  man's  poetry.  Nature  is  better 
than  poetry;  beauty  and  goodness,  truth,  kindness, 
love  to  God  and  man,  piety  and  hope  are  often,  in  the 
tired  peasant's  heart,  a  richer  music  than  greatest 
poets  ever  sung,  a  music  that  awakens  the  seraph's 
lyre,  though  it  may  be  faintly  heard  upon  the  chill  airs 
of  this  dull  world.  Nature  is  better  than  poetry  ;  the 
images  of  our  goodly  universe,  that  sparkle  around  us 
in  glorious  light;  the  sounds  that  fill  God's  solemn 
temple  with  everlasting  harmonies  ;  the  countless  orders 
that  with  ourselves  are  quickened  by  the  Creator's 
spirit ;  all  this  it  is  given  to  the  simplest  to  enjoy,  it  is 
not  given  to  the  most  inspired  to  express.  Heaven  is 
yet  better  than  Nature ;  Heaven,  that  ideal  of  perfect 
aspiration  to  which  the  soul  looks  up  in  all  its  best 
desires,  where  it  longs  to  find  the  consummation  of  its 
most  ardent  yearnings.  Better  still,  unutterably  better, 
the  Being,  infinite  and  supreme,  the  source  of  all 
thought,  the  sum  of  all  excellence,  the  origin  of  all 
truth,  the  author  of  all  beauty,  the  life  of  nature,  the 
light  of  heaven ;  whom  the  pure  in  heart  can  see,  and 
whom  in  seeing  they  are  blessed  for  ever. 


EBENEZEE,  ELLIOTT. 


Ebenezer  Elliott,  the  Corn-law  Rhymer,  the  great 
poet  of  English  artisans,  I  take  for  the  subject  of  the 
present  discourse. 

My  office  here  is  not  that  of  a  political  economist,  but 
that  of  a  literary  critic.  My  office  is  to  consider  rather 
the  poetic  genius  of  my  author,  than  his  commercial 
philosophy.  The  poetry  of  Elliott  will  remain,  when 
the  laws  against  which  he  so  vehemently  inveighed  will 
have  passed  away  into  the  tranquil  records  of  remoter 
history,  and  his  manly  verses  will  hold  a  life  which  in 
every  age  the  brave  and  the  struggling  will  recognise 
and  feel.  The  legislation  of  Athenians  in  relation  to 
Macedon  has  long  been  silent,  but  not  so  the  voice  of 
Demosthenes.  That  rings  upon  the  air  of  immortality, 
and  in  its  solemn  tones  it  sounds  along  from  century  to 


EBENEZER   ELLIOTT.  167 

century.  And  the  poet  is  not  of  weaker  or  shorter  life 
than  the  orator.  He  too  will  be  heard,  when  the  things 
which  aroused  his  soul  shall  be  known  no  more.  Death 
quickly  unnerves  the  arm  of  Koemer,  but  all  ages  will 
sing  his  "  Song  of  the  Sword."  The  character  of  Napo- 
leon is  fast  going  to  the  calm  meditation  of  philosophy 
and  history,  but  it  is  with  the  passion  of  enthusiasm 
that  French  patriots  will  always  chaunt  the  burning 
lyrics  of  Beranger.  The  Scots  have  long  since  ceased 
to  fight  with  the  Saxons,  but  through  all  the  future  it  is 
in  sadness  they  will  pour  forth  "  The  Lament  on  Flod- 
den  Field,"  and  in  ecstasy  "  The  Ode  on  Bannock- 
burn."  Party  politics  lose  their  importance,  temporary 
laws  become  obsolete ;  yet  if  they  enkindle  the  heart 
of  a  true  poet  into  a  burst  of  noble  song,  it  continues 
imperishable  in  its  melody  and  its  strength. 

Elliott  is  an  English  operative,  poetically  developed. 
Let  me  briefly  specify  what  an  English  operative  is, 
of  ordinary  development.  The  English  operative  em- 
bodies a  very  decisive  form  of  the  English  character. 
He  is  not  speculative,  but  practical.  He  is  not  versa- 
tile, but  skilful.  His  sphere  is  not  a  large  one,  but 
within  it  he  is  a  master.  He  is  attached  to  order  ;  he 
is  trained  to  order,  both  as  a  workman  and  a  citizen. 
Even  in  revolt,  he  acts  according  to  a  law.  He  is 
patient,  but  not  servile.     He  bears  inevitable  misfor- 


168  LECTURES  AND  ESSAYS. 

tunes  manfully  ;  in  the  best  condition  he  is  sure  to 
grumble,  but  in  the  worst  he  disdains  to  whine.  He  is 
not  without  aspiration.  He  is  not  insensible  to  dignity ; 
and  by  many  an.  effort  and  many  a  virtue,  he  makes 
good  a  title  to  nature's  nobility.  He  has  much  pride  of 
nation.  If  he  glories  in  nothing  else,  he  glories  in  his 
country.  Discontented  he  may  be  with  his  rulers,  but 
he  is  always  proud  of  England.  By  a  generalization, 
satisfactory  at  least  to  himself,  he  identifies  the  great- 
ness of  England  with  the  power  of  his  own  order. 
The  operative  classes,  in  his  view,  have  rendered  her 
the  paragon  of  nations.  By  them,  the  earth  and  the 
sea  .are  hers,  the  riches  of  the  mine,  and  the  treasures 
of  the  deep.  Through  the  means  he  considers,  of  the 
operative  classes,  England  governs  widely,  and  governs 
afar  ;  gains  her  victories,  and  maintains  her  dominion. 
The  English  mechanic,  even  when  wanting  school  in- 
struction, is  not  wholly  ignorant.  Knowledge  floats 
around  him,  of  which  he  cannot  but  partake  ;  and  de- 
spite even  of  himself,  the  tendency  of  events  subjects 
him  to  a  progressive  education.  Associated  as  he  is 
with  large  masses,  he  has  community  in  their  intelli- 
gence, as  well  as  in  their  passions.  Interests  of  imme- 
diate pressure,  which  he  cannot  discard,  crowd  about 
him ;  want,  of  which  he  would  seek  the  cause,  or  for 
which  he  would  find  a  remedy,  sharpen  his  sagacity ; 


EBENEZER   ELLIOTT.  169 

theories  solicit  his  belief,  and  tempt  examination  ; 
events,  discussion,  speculation,  all  that  agitate  a  com- 
munity profoundly  complicated,  include  his  mind  in 
their  aggregate  activities.  When  the  English  me- 
chanic has  had  his  mind  opened  by  reading,  he  desires 
to  be  informed,  rather  than  to  be  amused ;  and  he  is 
interested  in  works  which  treat  of  society  in  its  princi- 
ples, rather  than  in  its  manners.  With  reading  or  with- 
out it,  he  loves  nature ;  he  longs  for  green  fields  and 
the  wooded  lane  ;  he  delights  in  flowers  and  the  song 
of  birds  ;  and  he  is  seldom  without  a  geranium  in  his 
garret  window,  or  a  trained  canary  by  his  working  bench. 
Such  I  take  to  be  an  honest,  but  very  imperfect  esti- 
mate of  the  English  mechanic's  character.  Let  me 
add  something  on  his  general  condition.  In  skill  the 
English  mechanic  has  no  superior,  and  none  excel  him 
in  willingness  to  work.  But  still  his  situation  is  com- 
monly wretched,  and,  at  best,  it  is  hard.  His  situ- 
ation is  a  hard  one,  even  when  his  work  is  constant 
and  certain  ;  for  even  then,  aided  by  the  toil  of  his 
children,  he  can  merely  earn  for  the  day  what  the  day 
consumes.  The  hour,  therefore,  which  finds  him  idle, 
or  finds  him  ill,  comes  to  him  with  want ;  and  the  hour 
which  refuses  him  employment,  gives  him  to  pauperism. 
In  his  average  condition,  the  British  operative  is  lodged 
poorly,  fed  sparingly,  and  clad  imperfectly.    He  is  also 


170  LECTURES  AND  ESSAYS. 

the  greatest  sufferer  by  the  fluctuation  of  trade,  when 
it  is  adverse,  and  the  least  a  gainer  when  it  is  prosper- 
ous. The  turns  which  bring  weahh  to  the  capitalist, 
afford  the  operative  but  a  temporary  subsistence  ; 
while  those  which  injure  only  the  little  finger  of  the 
capitalist,  strike  at  the  very  life  of  the  operative.  It 
will  be  easily  inferred,  that  his  intellectual  privileges 
are  as  few  as  his  physical.  He  has  had  no  adequate 
provision  for  his  instruction ;  no  system  of  education 
has  been  presented  to  him,  which  he  could  claim  as  a 
right,  and  accept  without  degradation.  Charity-teaching 
has,  here  and  there,  solicited  him  to  learn  ;  but,  in  gen- 
eral, charity-teaching,  to  any  wide  extent,  is  worse  than 
ignorance ;  for  it  instructs  a  generation  to  spell  their 
beggary,  and  to  write  themselves  slaves.  Had  edu- 
cational means  been  as  abundant  as  they  have  been 
scanty,  and  as  elevating  as  they  have  been  debasing, 
the  British  operative  could  have  very  imperfectly  ap- 
propriated them,  for  his  toil  began  a  few  steps  from  the 
cradle,  and  it  continues  till  he  staggers  to  the  grave. 
The  Sabbath  itself  is  scarcely  his  inheritance.  The 
Sabbath  which  was  made  for  man,  which  was  given  by 
the  good  Father  for  rest  and  prayer,  has  slender  greet- 
ing from  the  poor  mechanic.  Fatigue  turns  it  to 
apathy,  or  want  clouds  it  with  sorrow.  Nor  can  his 
children  enjoy  it  as  it  should  be  in  their  power  to  enjoy 


EBENEZER    ELLIOTT.  171 

It.  In  a  right  social  state,  the  Sabbath  would  be  to  the 
young  a  season  of  repose,  a  season  of  gladness,  a 
weekly  jubilee,  finding  them  in  happy  homes,  or  at 
altars  free.  But  no  ;  the  youth  of  the  English  work- 
ing classes,  to  have  any  escape  from  absolute  igno- 
rance, make  it  an  interval  of  schooling,  and  thus,  six 
days'  drudgery  at  the  loom  is  followed  by  a  seventh 
day's  drudgery  at  the  primer. 

It  is  not  to  be  expected  that  the  English  mechanic 
should  be  contented  with  his  political  condition  ;  for 
however  sagacious  his  exclusion  from  the  suffrage  may 
appear  to  his  ruler,  it  is  too  much  to  think  it  could  be 
satisfactory  to  himself.  The  ruler  may  decide  that  he 
is  too  poor,  too  ignorant,  or  too  vicious  to  be  trusted, 
but  such  reasons,  instead  of  convincing,  insult  him.  The 
working  man  is  told,  that  unless  he  holds  a  house  of  a 
certain  rent  he  cannot  have  a  vote.  But  why,  he  in- 
quires 1  Every  reply  directly  to  this  question,  implies 
an  injury  or  an  insult.  Is  it  answered  that  he  is  ignorant, 
that  he  is  poor  ?  How  comes  it,  that  he  should  be  so  ig- 
norant or  so  poor,  that  he  cannot  be  permitted  to  exercise 
the  rights  of  a  citizen  ?  First,  he  is  debased  by  injustice, 
and  his  debasement  is  then  urged  against  him.  Is  it  an- 
swered that  he  is  vicious,  and  cannot  be  trusted .?  The 
injury  is  made  perfect  by  insult.  But  who  are  you,  asks 
the  thinking  mechanic,  who  tell  the  working  poor  that 


ITS  LECTURES  AND  ESSAYS. 

they  are  vicious  ?  You  are  those  who  try  to  tempt  our 
penury ;  who  come  to  us  with  the  damning  bribe  ;  who 
take  base  opportunity  of  our  weakness,  and  wrench 
from  hunger  what  you  would  never  get  from  freedom  ; 
who  corrupt  us  to  sell  our  souls ;  and  when  you  have 
paid  the  wages  of  iniquity,  turn  round,  as  Satan  does  on 
his  victims,  and  scare  us  with  our  crime  !  Those  who 
debauch  the  few  poor  that  have  votes,  refuse  them  to  the 
millions ;  for  such  extended  franchise  would  annihilate 
your  power  of  corruption.  Who  are  you,  who  tell  the 
working  poor  that  they  are  vicious  ?  An  idle  aristoc- 
racy ;  men  who  feast  in  the  midst  of  want,  and  who  would 
keep  closed  the  gates  of  plenty  ;  men  who  revel  in  lux- 
ury, and  who  lay  least  restraint  on  their  passions  ;  among 
many  of  whom  sensuality  is  so  notorious,  that  it  has 
ceased  to  be  scandalous.  You  are  the  men,  who  pre- 
sume to  insinuate  that  a  hard  working  mechanic  has  not 
moral  qualification  to  be  a  free  man  upon  his  birth-soil. 
Do  you  tell  the  operative  that  he  has  no  stake  in  the 
country  ?  What,  no  stake  ?  Has  he  not  himself  ? 
Has  he  not  his  life  ?  Has  his  life  been  rendered  so 
miserable,  that  it  is  worth  nothing  even  to  himself? 
Has  he  not,  then,  kindred  —  the  father  who  carried 
him  in  boyhood  ;  the  mother  who  nursed  him  in  infan- 
cy ?  Has  he  not  a  wife,  and  children,  as  dear  to  his 
forlorn  heart  as  if  he  were  a  peer  ?    And  will  you  tell 


EBENEZER    ELLIOTT.  173 

the  muscular  men  of  England  in  the  hour  of  need,  that 
they  have  no  stake  in  the  country  ;  that  their  partners 
and  Ihtle  ones  do  not  out-value  the  world,  titles,  thrones, 
and  all  its  other  baubles  ?  Did  you  tell  this  to  the 
victors  of  the  Nile,  or  the  heroes  of  Waterloo  ?  Was 
this  your  watchword  upon  the  heights  of  Corunna  or 
the  walls  of  Badajoz  ?  But  the  working  man  knows, 
that  base  as  these  imputations  against  him  seem,  they 
are  not  sincere  ;  he  knows,  that  it  is  not  his  ignorance 
that  is  feared,  but  his  intelligence  ;  not  his  vice,  but  his 
independence  ;  it  is  because  that  he  does  apppreciate 
his  stake  in  the  country,  that  he  is  precluded  from 
manifesting  the  sense  he  entertams  of  its  worth.  Yet 
he  does  not  separate  this  from  the  rights  of  others ;  it 
is  his  interest  to  hold  sacred  the  rights  of  all  classes  ; 
and  no  calumny  is  more  unfounded  than  that  which 
would  ascribe  indifference  to  the  claims  of  property  to 
the  English  operatives.  The  untouched  inclosures  of 
the  nation  ;  the  abodes  of  elegance  at  every  turn  ;  the 
castles  of  grandeur  that  crown  so  many  forests;  the 
secure  luxury  of  nobles  in  the  sight  of  dying  multi- 
tudes; the  tranquil  order  of  business,  give  a  universal 
lie  to  this  aspersion  ! 

Jealous  of  practical  liberty,  the  English  masses  are 
not  easily  disturbed  about  speculative  liberty.  They 
cannot  be  aroused  by  abstract  ideas  ;  they  are  stirred 


174  LECTURES   AND   ESSAYS. 

to  action  only  by  palpable  grievances.  Chartism  is 
therefore,  the  exponent  of  profound  and  extended 
suffering ;  it  is  no  offspring  of  theoretical  reasoning, 
but  of  physical  endurance  ;  the  evil  is  radical  and 
national.  Chartism  is  a  simultaneous  cry,  not  by 
preconcerted  design,  but  in  the  unity  of  a  common 
sorrow,  for  a  remedy  as  radical  and  as  national  as  the 
evil.  The  Chartists  are  not,  as  many  suppose,  the 
lowest  of  the  working  classes ;  they  are  not  the  dis- 
orderly and  the  ignorant ;  they  are  the  most  sober  and 
the  most  intelligent.  They  are  men,  who,  being  aware 
of  the  support  which  they  afford  to  the  nation,  feel 
entitled  to  a  political  existence  ;  they  are  willing  to  be 
members  of  society,  but  not  its  victims. 

Physically,  then,  intellectually,  morally,  and  politi- 
cally, the  condition  of  English  mechanics  has  long 
been  one  of  irritation  and  discontent.  Ebenezer  Elliott 
became  the  impersonation  of  this  discontent.  His  voice 
was  raised  for  millions  who  had  no  voice.  Dumb  under 
the  goad,  they  found  in  their  brother  a  heart  of  pity 
and  a  tongue  of  power.  Elliott's  voice  was  mighty, 
and  mighty  in  complaint.  Elliott  cried  aloud,  and 
spared  not.  With  impetuous  and  ringing  tones,  with 
the  stern  boldness  of  an  ancient  seer,  and  the  vehement 
eloquence  of  a  modern  reformer,  he  denounced  the 
hard-handed  and  the  proud.      It  summoned  them  to 


EBENEZER    ELLIOTT.  175 

trial ;  he  hung  up,  as  witness  against  them,  the  skinny- 
skeleton  of  hunger ;  he  evoked  the  fiend  of  want  to 
scare  them  at  their  feasts  ;  and  he  breathed  into  his 
terrible  verses,  the  howl  of  starving  multitudes,  implor- 
ing vindication  and  relief.  We  must  not  regard  Elliott 
as  a  mere  poet.  He  is  a  prophet.  He  needs  not  fear 
criticism ;  but  a  critical  judgment  of  him,  would  not  be 
the  true  judgment.  A  moral  feeling,  rather  than  one  of 
art,  must  guide  our  thoughts.  He  wrote  for  the  suffer- 
ing ;  and  to  the  suffering  he  has  clung.  He  has  de- 
voted rare  abilities  to  that  side  in  the  social  struggle, 
which,  personally,  could  promise  him  neither  victory 
nor  spoils.  "  I  am  sufficiently  rewarded,"  he  says,  "  if 
my  poetry  has  led  one,  poor,  despairing  victim  of  mis- 
rule, from  the  ale-house  to  the  fields  ;  if  I  have  been 
chosen  of  God,  to  show  his  desolate  heart,  that  though 
his  wrongs  have  been  heavy,  and  his  fall  deep,  and 
though  the  spoiler  is  yet  abroad,  still  in  the  green  lanes 
of  England,  the  primrose  is  blowing,  and  on  the  moun- 
tain top  the  lonely  fir  is  pointing  with  her  many  fingers 
to  our  Father  who  is  in  heaven  ;  to  Him  whose  wisdom 
is  at  once  inscrutable  and  indubitable  ;  to  whom  ages 
are  as  a  moment ;  to  Him,  who  has  created  another  and 
a  better  world,  for  all  who  act  nobly  and  suffer  unjustly 
here  ;  a  world  of  river-feeding  mountains,  to  which 
the  oak  will  come  in  his  strength  and  the  ash  in  her 


176  LECTURES  AND  ESSAYS. 

beauty  ;  of  chiming  streams  and  el  my  vales,  where  the 
wild  flowers  of  our  country,  and  among  them  the  little 
daisy,  will  not  refuse  to  bloom." 

The  distinctive  characteristic  of  Elliott  as  a  poet,  is 
strength  ;  strength  of  idea,  and  strength  of  word  ; 
strength  in  concentration  of  thought  and  in  singleness 
of  purpose.  Elliott  has  strength,  and  he  has  also  the 
directness  which  accompanies  strength.  The  courage 
which  belongs  to  the  strong  is,  therefore,  a  natural 
quality  of  Elliott.  Fearless  and  uncompromising,  im- 
passioned and  sincere,  he  is,  of  course,  individual  and 
independent.  He  is  confident  of  the  power  that  is  in 
him  ;  he  is  confident  of  its  worth,  and  he  is  honest  in 
its  direction.  He  is  the  creature  of  no  patron;  he  is 
the  pet  of  no  coterie ;  he  is,  simply,  a  man  of  deep 
feelings  and  of  earnest  words ;  a  man  that  writes 
because  necessity  is  laid  upon  him,  and  because  his 
heart  is  full. 

But  mere  strength  will  not  make  a  poet ;  nor  will 
enthusiasm,  added  to  strength,  make  a  poet.  To  be  a 
poet,  a  man  must  have  a  sense  of  the  beautiful ;  and 
he  must  have  capacity  to  express  this  emotion.  Elliott 
feels  the  beautiful  in  creation,  and  hence  his  delight  in 
nature.  The  rural  sentiment  is  ever  active  in  his 
breast.  Nature  is  dear  to  him,  and  nature,  especially 
as  manifested  in  the  English  landscape.     The  fancy  of 


EBENEZEE   ELLIOTT.  177 

Elliott  seldom  transcends  his  sympathies.  He  wanders 
not  through  space  in  the  chariot  of  Queen  Mab  ;  a 
ramble  by  a  native  rivulet  contents  him.  He  flies  not 
to  the  vales  of  Indus,  or  to  the  bowers  of  Samarcand  ; 
he  is  satisfied  with  the  velvet  fields,  and  the  sheltered 
lanes  of  England.  He  paints  entirely  from  observation, 
and  therefore  his  pictures  are  all  from  the  scenery  of 
his  country.  His  descriptions  are  fresh  and  striking ; 
at  times,  perhaps,  elaborate,  but  never  unnatural.  His 
images  are  excellent,  ancl  they  are  numerous.  Occa- 
sionally redundant,  but  always  vigorous,  they  are  as 
different  from  the  conceits  of  sentimental  ism,  as  moun- 
tain oaks  from  hot-house  plants ;  they  are  vital  forms, 
not  colored  shadows  ;  the  drapery  of  living  beauty,  not 
wreaths  on  the  brow  of  a  corpse,  or  garlands  hung 
upon  a  tomb. 

This  sympathy  with  natural  objects  is  a  most  salutary 
element  in  such  a  mental  constitution  as  that  of  Elliott. 
It  is  this  that  leads  him  from  the  forges  to  the  hill-side, 
and  from  the  crowded  street  to  the  quiet  valley.  It 
finds  him  companions  in  trees  and  flowers ;  it  gives 
him  pleasant  music  in  the  songs  of  the  grove  and  the 
ripple  of  the  stream.  It  is,  therefore,  a  relief  to  us, 
when  he  takes  us  from  corn  laws  and  cotton  lords  to 
peaceful  haunts  beyond  the  smoke  of  town ;  haunts 
that  soothe  the  turmoil  of  his  thoughts,  and  brighten  the 

VOL.    I.  12 


178  LECTURES  AND  ESSAYS. 

spirit  of  his  dreams.  Though  he  may  still  carry  with 
him  the  tale  of  his  grievance,  we  love  to  hear  it  under 
the  equal  and  the  open  sky,  rather  than  in  garret  or 
cellar,  foundry  or  mill.  Alive  as  Elliott  is  to  social 
disorders  and  social  wrongs,  it  is  also  well  that  he 
should  be  alive  to  things  which  the  passions  of  the 
fighting  world  cannot  mar.  It  is  well  that  an  ear  so 
tortured  with  the  groans  of  man,  should  often  give 
itself  to  the  hymn  of  nature.  It  is  well  that  an  eye  so 
familiar  with  the  sinful  parts  of  earth,  should  find  a 
region  of  consolation  which  wickedness  cannot  defile. 
The  breeze  upon  the  cheek  ;  the  free  winds  making 
choral  harmonies  with  the  forest ;  the  joy  of  animals  ; 
the  blessed  influences  of  holy  light,  tend  mightily  to 
cleanse  the  bosom  from  foul  and  perilous  stuff;  to 
wash  from  the  sicklied  brain  the  corrosions  which  it 
has  gathered  by  unhealthy  thoughts.  Amidst  the 
mountains,  beside  the  ocean,  upward  among  the  stars, 
our  mean  irritations  expire  ;  they  are  lost  in  the  pres- 
ence of  majesty  and  vastness  ;  our  concentrating  little- 
ness is  absorbed  in  the  silent  immensity  of  lustre. 

Sympathy  with  external  nature  also  influences  the 
character  of  Elliott's  religion.  The  piety  of  Elliott 
is  not  ritual,  but  primitive.  He  worships  God,  not  in 
human  forms,  but  in  his  own  consecrated  universe.  In 
the  spirit  of  a  worshipper,  he  seeks  the  copse  or  dell ; 


EBENEZER    ELLIOTT.  179 

in  such  a  spirit  he  strolls  by  the  river,  or  muses  in 
the  shade.  The  spirit  of  devotion  breaks  through  the 
roughest  of  Elliott's  denouncings  ;  it  comes  ever  and 
ever,  like  a  hymn  in  the  mountains  between  the  gusts 
of  a  thunder-storm.  Darkly  as  social  existence  is  re- 
flected in  his  thoughts,  he  does  not  leave  out  from  his 
faith,  that  a  wise  and  gracious  Providence  cares  for 
humanity.  With  the  wealthy  he  is  often  angry  ;  even 
with  the  poor  he  is,  at  times,  impatient ;  but  before  his 
Maker  he  is  always  humble  and  believing.  Elliott 
dwells  but  too  constantly  in  the  land  of  Mesech,  and 
sojourns  amid  the  tents  of  Kedar ;  the  forms  most 
present  to  his  sight  and  to  his  musings,  are  those  of 
faded  women  and  despairing  men ;  but  still  he  holds 
fast  in  his  piety,  and  bows  in  reverence  to  his  Maker 
in  mournful  submission.  In  Elliott's  lines  on  "  Forest 
Worship,"  we  have  a  fair  illustration  of  his  devotional 
temper.  Though  shaded  with  his  habitual  gloom,  there 
are  beamings  through  them  of  hope  and  resignation. 

"  Within  the  sun-lit  forest, 

Our  roof  the  bright  blue  sky ; 
Where  fountains  flow  and  wild  flowers  blow, 

We  lift  our  hearts  on  high. 
Beneath  the  fiown  of  wicked  men 

Our  country's  strength  is  bowing, 
But  thanks  to  God,  they  can't  prevent 

The  lone  wild  flowers  from  blowing. 


180  LECTURES  AND  ESSAYS. 

"  High,  high  above  the  tree-tops 

The  lark  is  soaring  free  ; 
Where  streams  the  light  through  broken  clouds, 

His  speckled  breast  I  see  : 
Beneath  the  might  of  wicked  men 

The  poor  man's  worth  is  dying  ; 
But  thank'd  be  God,  in  spite  of  them, 

The  lark  still  warbles  flying. 

"  The  preacher  prays.  Lord  bless  us  ! 

Lord  bless  us,  echo  cries ; 
Amen,  the  breezes  murmur  low, 

Amen,  the  rill  replies  : 
The  ceaseless  toil  of  woe-worn  hearts 

The  proud  with  pangs  are  paying  ; 
But  here,  O  God  of  earth  and  heaven ! 

The  humble  heart  is  praying. 

"  How  softly  in  the  pauses 

Of  song,  re-echoed  wide, 
The  cushat's  coo,  the  linnet's  lay, 

O'er  hill  and  river  glide. 
With  evil  deeds,  of  evil  men. 

The  affrighted  land  is  ringing  ; 
But  still,  O  Lord  !  the  pious  heart 

And  soul-toned  voice  are  singing." 

Imagination,  in  its  creative  force,  does  not,  as  I  ap- 
prehend, belong  to  Elliott ;  but  fancy  is  his  ;  fancy  that 
teems  with  poetic  illustration,  and  that  burns  with  elo- 


EBENEZER    ELLIOTT.  181 

quent  impulses.  Yet  though  the  fancy  of  Elliott  is  strong 
and  rich,  it  is  not  plastic  ;  and  this  appears  especially  in 
his  management  of  numbers  and  language.  His  verse 
wants  music  ;  it  is  obstinate  ;  rugged  ;  of  difficult  enun- 
ciation. It  is  pervaded  with  fire  ;  it  is  not  a  fire,  how- 
ever, which  renders  expression  liquid,  but  a  fire  which 
makes  it  hard  ;  it  does  not  give  to  language  harmony, 
but  intensity.  Elliott  is  copious,  but  not  select ;  and 
though  evidently  master  of  an  abundant  vocabulary,  he 
uses  favorite  epithets  and  phrases  with  a  constancy 
of  repetition,  which  would  be  intolerable  in  a  writer  of 
less  ability.  There  is  an  artistic  command  by  which 
the  poet  uses  words  as  the  painter  uses  colors  ;  by  which 
his  verses  become  to  the  ear  what  a  picture  is  to  the 
eye  ;  by  which  variety  and  sweetness  of  modulation  has 
similar  effects  to  a  just  disposition  of  light  and  shade  ; 
by  which  diction  commingles  into  one  the  spirit  of 
thought  and  the  beauty  of  the  universe.  Such  I  appre- 
hend to  be  the  essence  of  poetic  harmony.  This  is 
not,  as  I  conceive,  the  distinctive  excellence  of  Elliott. 
I  say  distinctive,  because  I  would  not  assert  that  Elliott 
never  has  it.  Occasionally,  his  verse  has  a  gentle  sweet- 
ness or  a  high  choral  sounding,  which  would  entitle  it 
to  a  lofty  place  in  the  music  of  poetry. 

In  the  nature  of  his  topics,  Elliott  has  some  resem- 
blance to  Crabbe.     Both  have  selected  their  subjects 


182  LECTURES  AND  ESSAYS. 

from  humble  life ;  and  both  have  dealt  with  their  sub- 
jects in  a  tone  of  earnestness,  and  conformably  to 
reality.  Here  the  resemblance  closes.  Elliott  admits 
the  suggestive  action  of  Crabbe's  genius  upon  his  mind, 
yet  Elliott  is  not  his  imitator.  He  has  more  passion 
than  Crabbe,  more  fancy,  and  more  sympathy.  His 
verse,  assuming  every  diversity  of  structure,  does  not 
contain  the  variety  of  incident  which  quivers  beneath 
the  simple  and  monotonous  lines  of  Crabbe.  He  is 
not,  like  Crabbe,  minute  and  literal ;  nor  has  he 
Crabbe's  fearful  power  of  tragic  narrative.  He  cannot, 
as  that  writer,  work  up  a  picture  of  sin  and  sorrow, 
until  the  heart  is  chill ;  he  cannot  freeze  the  blood, 
but  he  can  heat  it ;  he  can  kindle  anger,  but  he  cannot 
inspire  terror. 

I  have  said,  that  Elliott  has  great  love  for  external 
nature ;  he  has,  also,  great  love  for  man.  This  love 
has  been  rendered  angry  by  his  circumstances  ;  it  has 
been  turned  into  indignation  by  the  wrong  which 
humanity  inflicts  upon  humanity.  He  has  compan- 
ioned with  the  afflicted,  and  he  has  taken  up  the  burden 
of  their  lamentation,  and  their  curse.  He  is,  therefore, 
a  prophet  in  the  wilderness  of  calamity,  and  his  voice 
is  as  sad  as  it  is  vehement.  There  is  a  mighty  heart 
in  the  man,  but  the  big  veins  of  it  are  filled  with  grief; 
they  swell  with  a  huge  suffering,  and  groans  not  loud, 


EBENEZER   ELLIOTT.  183 

but  deep,  come  out  of  the  heavings.  The  brotherhood 
of  Elliott  have  literally  been  "  men  of  sorrows,"  and 
Elliott's  is  a  temper  to  make  such  sorrow  all  his  own. 
He  had  no  need  to  stir  his  imagination  with  thoughts 
of  fictitious  woe  ;  the  presence  of  actual  misery  was 
always  before  him.  It  met  him  at  every  turn  ;  it 
stared  on  him  at  every  corner  ;  it  pressed  on  him  at 
every  sense  ;  it  peered  up  to  him  from  the  foggy  cellar ; 
it  gazed  down  upon  him  from  the  dizzy  garret;  he 
heard  it  in  the  whine  of  breadless  childhood  ;  he  saw 
it  in  the  pale  faces  which  crowded  from  the  nightly 
factory  to  meet  the  sleepy  dawn  ;  it  sat  before  him 
in  the  worn  mother  with  her  sickly  infant ;  it  staggered 
by  him  in  the  drooping  father  leading  out  his  consump- 
tive boy,  to  lie  upon  the  grass,  and  pluck  a  flower  ere 
he  died.  How  could  a  man  like  Elliott,  a  man, 
almost  made  of  fire,  escape  being  stirred  to  fury? 
How  was  any  temperance  of  humanity  preserved  in 
him  ?  Only,  because  he  had  pity  equal  to  his  anger, 
and  his  weeping  was  even  more  bitter  than  his  wrath. 

What  a  martyrdom  for  life  is  his,  who  cannot  help 
but  feel  ?  Who  cannot  escape  from  the  wretchedness 
about  him,  nor  yet  from  the  sensibility  within,  which 
gives  to  that  wretchedness  its  utmost  gloom  ?  There 
is,  to  be  sure,  an  idealism,  which  discerns  a  glorious 
hope,  or  the  state  would  not  be  martyrdom,  but  perdi- 


184  LECTURES   AND    ESSAYS. 

tion.  The  martyr,  in  the  midst  of  agonies,  sees  the 
heavens  opened,  and  the  light  streaming  down  upon 
him  from  the  throne  of  God  ;  and  in  the  very  chokings 
of  torture,  he  puts  forth  the  anthems  of  faith.  The 
poet  has  such  faith  in  the  worst  of  hours  ;  and  poets 
such  as  Elliott  need  it.  His  song  is  truly  the  hymn  of 
the  martyr.  A  vast  difference,  there  is,  between  im- 
aginary woes,  and  the  woes  of  imagination ;  a  vast 
difference  between  the  regrets  of  a  coquette  for  the 
loss  of  a  worthless  lover,  and  the  grief  of  that  man  who 
can  hear  the  prisoner's  sigh  in  the  lowest  dungeon  of 
earth,  who  can  realize  in  its  terrible  extent  the  empire 
of  wrong,  upon  which,  indeed,  the  sun  never  sets.  To 
speak,  simply,  of  personal  afflictions,  how  exceeding 
heavy  are  they  on  the  man  of  imagination,  in  whom 
there  is  a  true  sensibility.  To  mere  instinct  they  are 
soon  over.  They  are  clouds  that  spread  shadows  as 
they  pass,  but  are  melted  in  the  first  gush  of  the  sun. 
With  imagination,  in  which  the  heart's  life  keeps  fresh, 
they  are  spectres  that  disappear,  but  come  back  again 
at  the  slightest  touch. 

The  vividness  and  intensity  which  belong  to  genius, 
are  sources  of  perennial  suggestiveness.  The  com- 
mon mind,  dependent  ever  on  the  senses,  weeps  away 
its  grief  in  the  hour  when  it  comes,  but  to  the  strong 
and  keen  imagination,  sorrow  starts  up  from  the  grave 


EBENEZER   ELLIOTT. 


185 


of  years,  more  killing  than  ever  in  its  first  visitation. 
Often  the  man  of  genius  seems  to  want  ordinary  sen- 
sibility while  affliction  is  present ;  his  voice  is  firm,  and 
his  eye  holds  no  tear  ;  but  when  the  event  is  nothing  to 
those  who  moaned  the  loudest,  it  will  come  back  to 
him ;  it  will  cross  the  paths  of  his  solitary  walks ;  it 
will  sit  by  him  in  his  thoughtful  indolence  ;  it  will  lean 
with  him  over  the  declining  embers;  it  will  start  on 
him  in  the  midst  of  his  reasonings  ;  it  will  interrupt  his 
meditations  with  sobbings  as  of  a  child.  "What,  then, 
must  life  have  been  to  such  a  man  as  Elliott  ?  With  a 
heart  that  could  not  be  otherwise  than  unhappy,  while 
his  fellows  groaned ;  with  that  capacity  which  gathered 
into  its  range  of  perception,  the  cotton  mill,  the  forge, 
the  ten  thousand  varieties  of  poor  men's  homes,  the 
bald  monotony  of  poor  men's  histories,  the  hopeless 
fardel  of  toil  and  destitution,  how  could  he  be  otherwise 
than  sad ;  his  bosom  a  fountain  of  tears,  and  his  utter- 
ance a  voice  of  wailing  !  I  will  not  say,  that  Elliott's 
gloom  is  desirable  either  for  poetry  or  usefulness.  It 
is  well,  indeed,  that  there  should  be  always  souls  to 
bum  for  evils  that  are  rampant  in  the  habitable  world  ; 
it  is  well  there  should  be  a  sympathy,  which  will  not 
hold  its  peace,  while  the  weak  are  crushed  ;  it  is  well 
there  should  be  an  anger  which  will  not  quit  the  warfare 
against   injustice,  while  injustice  triumphs.      Yet,  for 


186  LECTURES  AND  ESSAYS. 

strong  and  healthy  action,  there  must  be  points  of  rest, 
and  many  associations  of  peace  ;  there  must  be  serene 
spaces,  from  which  the  soul  can  shut  out  the  cares  that 
oppress  it.  Even  to  ameliorate  the  disorders  for  which 
we  grieve,  and  to  acquire  energy  against  them,  we 
must  often  take  ourselves  away  from  their  company. 
Sympathy,  itself,  droops  in  an  unvarying  contemplation 
of  wretchedness  ;  and  therefore,  to  sustain  the  mission 
of  philanthropists,  we  must  carry  the  cheerfulness  of 
hope  into  the  toils  of  mercy.  I  will  not  say,  that  the 
feelings  of  Elliott  are  not  often  too  prejudiced  and  one- 
sided. The  poet  must  be  more  than  an  advocate.  The 
anger  of  the  poet  like  that  of  the  prophet,  must  be  an 
anger  more  solemn  than  that  of  the  passions.  The  poet, 
too,  who  wishes  to  outlive  the  strifes  of  a  generation, 
must  have  that  tolerance  which  marks  the  permanent 
and  the  comprehensive  manifestations  of  humanity  ;  he 
must  have  the  eye  of  wisdom,  and  the  heart  of  charity. 
The  poor  man,  however,  so  absorbs  Elliott,  so  attracts 
his  sympathy,  that  the  rich  man  has  little  from  him  but 
resistance.  He  forgets,  too  often,  that  humanity,  in  the 
peer  as  in  the  beggar,  is  a  thing  of  frailties,  subject  to 
folly  and  to  grief ;  a  thing  which,  under  the  brightest 
gaud,  bears  anguish  enough  to  claim  our  pity. 

Elliott  has  been  a  fertile  writer.     His  productions  I 
cannot  minutely  examine,  or  even  specify.      Among 


EBENEZER    ELLIOTT.  187 

his  shorter  poems,  there  are  some  that  come  out  from 
the  heart's  fullness,  and  speak  at  once  to  the  heart's 
sympathies.  Among  these  I  may  mention,  "  The  Dy- 
ing Boy  to  the  Sloe  Blossom,"  "  Mary's  Dream," 
"  Preston  Mills,"  "  He  went.  He  wrote,  He  came." 
Elliott  has  had  woe  and  trials  in  his  own  home  ;  he 
has  wept  on  the  waste  spaces  which  death  made  in  his 
little  circle ;  and  in  all  these  expressions  of  grief- 
inspired  genius,  we  feel  the  man  in  the  poet,  and  the 
poet  in  the  man.  "  The  Village  Patriarch "  is  the 
longest  poem  of  Elliott,  and  perhaps  his  best.  It  is 
thoughtful  and  elevated.  Enoch  Wray,  the  village 
patriarch,  has  numbered  a  hundred  years.  A  humble 
man  was  Enoch  Wray.  He  was  poor,  but  had  genius. 
He  had  the  wisdom  of  the  head,  and  the  cunning  of  the 
hand  ;  his  speaking  and  his  work  showed  he  had  ideas, 
and  that  these  ideas  were  his  own.  In  his  youth  he 
became  blind  by  too  intense  a  perusal  of  Schiller's 
drama  of  "The  Robbers;"  the  French  revolution 
having  increased  the  agitation,  until  it  destroyed  his 
sight.  When  the  poet  introduces  us  to  the  old  man 
eloquent,  he  is  the  chronicle  of  his  neighborhood,  the 
impersonation  of  a  century.  The  glory  of  the  world 
has  departed  from  his  eye,  but  truth  and  wisdom  are  a 
more  excellent  glory  to  his  soul.  The  beauty  of  things 
visible  has  given  place  to  the  beauty  of  things  immortal. 


188  LECTURES  AND  ESSAYS. 

He  is  resigned,  but  despondent ;  his  home  has  been 
afflicted,  and  his  county  has  become  degenerate.  Eng- 
land, he  thinks,  is  not  the  England  of  his  youth.  The 
peasants  are  sparingly  fed,  and  the  nobles  are  no  longer 
generous.  But  nature  is  ever  dear  to  Enoch.  He 
loves  the  odor  of  the  primrose,  and  the  texture  of  the 
violet ;  he  loves  to  sit  in  summer  by  his  cottage  door, 
and  to  feel  the  breath  of  evening  upon  his  sightless 
brow.  He  loves  with  friendly  help  to  climb  the  moun- 
tain, and  there,  upon  its  lonely  summit,  amidst  the 
silence  of  infinitude,  to  commune  with  the  Eternal. 
Enoch  soon  walks  no  more  with  man.  After  some 
gropings  to  familiar  places,  after  some  farewells  to  old 
companions,  Enoch  gives  up  the  ghost,  and  is  gathered 
to  his  fathers.  The  whole  poem  is  impressed  with 
genius,  but  the  whole  must  be  read  that  the  genius  may 
be  felt.  Enoch's  own  character  is  shrouded  in  a  dim 
religious  grandeur ;  with  impassioned  lamentation,  there 
are  gentle  musings  that  tell  of  hard  days  passed  in  toil, 
and  quiet  Sabbaths  passed  in  prayer ;  there  are  eleva- 
tion and  seriousness,  the  elevation  of  a  solemn  faith, 
and  the  seriousness  of  a  profound  experience. 

The  Corn-law  Rhymes,  are  the  verses  by  which 
Elliott  is  most  extensively  known  ;  and  though  by  no 
means  the  best  of  his  works,  they  are  those  which  give 
him  his  literary  designation.     They  are  verses  of  extra- 


EBENEZER   ELLIOTT.  189 

ordinary  power  ;  but  of  power  to  be  thoroughly  under- 
stood only  by  those  who  know  the  poverty  of  England. 
These  poems  are  fierce,  scornful,  indignant,  sarcastic, 
sweeping  boldly  along  in  thundering  rebuke,  or  fiery 
denunciation.  Take  this  battle  song  as  an  instance  — 
and  I  think  it  is  a  fair  one  —  of  their  spirit  and  their 
energy : 

"  Day,  like  our  souls,  is  fiercely  dark ; 
What  then  ?     'T  is  day ! 
We  sleep  no  more  ;  the  cock  crows  —  hark 
To  arms !  away  ! 

"  They  come  !  they  come !  the  knell  is  rung 
Of  us  or  them ; 
Wide  o'er  their  march  the  pomp  is  Hung 
Of  gold  and  gem. 

**  What  collar'd  hound  of  lawless  sway, 
To  famine  dear  — 
What  pensioned  slave  of  Attila, 
Leads  in  the  rear? 

*'  Come  they  from  Scythian  wilds  afar, 
Our  blood  to  spill  1 
Wear  they  the  livery  of  the  Czar  ? 
They  do  his  will. 


190  LECTURES  AND  ESSAYS. 

*'  Nor  tassell'd  silk,  nor  epaulette, 
Nor  plume,  nor  torse  — 
No  splendor  gilds,  all  sternly  met, 
Our  foot  and  horse. 

"  But,  dark  and  still  we  inly  glow, 
Condensed  in  ire ! 
Strike  tawdry  slaves,  and  ye  shall  know 
Our  gloom  is  fire. 

"In  vain  your  pomp,  ye  evil  powers, 
Insults  the  land ; 
Wrongs,  vengeance,  and  the  cause  is  ours ! 
And  God's  right  hand  ! 

"  Mad  men  !     They  trample  into  snakes 
The  wormy  clod ! 
Like  fire,  beneath  their  feet  awakes 
The  sword  of  God  ! 

"  Behind,  before,  above,  below, 
They  rouse  the  brave  — 
Where'er  they  go,  they  make  a  foe 
Or  find  a  grave." 


But  they  are  not  all  thus.      Here  is  a  rhyme  of  more 
sober  character : 


EBENEZER    ELLIOTT.  191 

"  Wrong  not  the  laboring  poor  by  whom  ye  live, 

Wrong  not  your  humble  fellow-worms,  ye  proud  ! 
For  God  will  not  the  poor  man's  wrongs  forgive, 
But  hear  his  plea,  and  have  his  plea  allowed. 

"  0  be  not  like  the  vapors,  splendor-rolled, 

That  sprung  from  earth's  green  breast,  usurp  the  sky, 
Then  spread  around  contagion  black  and  cold. 
Till  all  who  mourn  the  dead,  prepare  to  die ! 

"  No  !  imitate  the  bounteous  clouds  that  rise. 

Freighted  with  bliss  from  river,  vale,  and  plain  ; 
The  thankful  clouds  that  beautify  the  skies. 
Then  fill  the  lap  of  earth  with  fruit  and  grain. 

"  Yes  !  emulate  the  mountain  and  the  flood. 

That  trade  in  blessings  with  the  mighty  deep  ; 
Till,  soothed  to  peace,  and  satisfied  with  good, 
Man's  heart  be  happy  as  a  child  asleep." 

And  here  is  a  truly  noble  chaunt  on  "  The  Press  :  " 

"  God  said,  '  Let  there  be  light ; ' 
Grim  darkness  felt  his  might 
And  fled  away  ; 
Then  startled  seas  and  mountains  cold 
Shone  forth,  all  bright  in  blue  and  gold. 
And  cried  — '  'T  is  day,  'tis  day.' 


192  LECTURES    AND    ESSAYS. 

**  Hail  holy  light !  exclaimed 
The  thund'rous  cloud  that  flamed 
O'er  daisy's  white  ; 
And  lo  !  the  rose  in  crimson  dressed, 
Leaned  sweetly  on  the  lily's  breast ; 

And  blushing,  murmured  —  '  Light !  ' 

"  Then  was  the  sky-lark  born. 
Then  rose  the  embattled  corn  ; 
Then  floods  of  praise 
Flowed  o'er  the  sunny  hills  of  noon ; 
And  then,  in  stillest  might,  the  moon 
Poured  forth  her  pensive  lays. 

"  Lo !  heaven's  bright  bow  is  glad, 
Lo,  trees  and  flowers  all  clad 
In  glory,  bloom ! 
And  shall  the  mortal  sons  of  God 
Be  senseless  as  the  trodden  clod. 
And  darker  than  the  tomb  1 

*'  No  !  by  the  mind  of  man ! 
By  the  swart  artisan  ! 
By  God  our  Sire ! 
Our  souls  have  holy  light  within. 
And  every  form  of  grief  and  sin. 
Shall  see  and  feel  its  fire. 

"  By  earth,  and  hell,  and  heaven, 
The  shroud  of  souls  is  riven. 


EBENEZER   ELLIOTT.  illO 

Mind,  mind  alone 
Is  light,  and  hope,  and  life,  and  power ! 
Earth's  deepest  night  from  this  bless'd  horn*, 
The  night  of  mind  is  gone ! 

"  The  Press  all  lands  shall  sing  ; 
The  Press,  the  Press,  we  bring, 
All  lands  to  bless  ; 
0  pallid  want !     O  Labor  stark  ! 
Behold,  we  bring  the  sacred  ark ! 

The  Press !  the  Press !  the  Press  !  " 

Elliott  has  the  poetic  nature  in  him  in  its  elemental 
strength  ;  but  he  differs  from  most  poets  as  to  the  man- 
ner in  which  it  works  through  him,  and  in  which  it 
finds  expression.  Elliott  seems  to  feel  a  passion  in  its 
utmost  power,  then  to  be  troubled  for  its  limitations, 
until  he  becomes  angry  unto  wrath,  or  saddened  to 
despair,  for  the  wronged  or  the  wretched,  in  whom 
nature  is  either  maddened  or  destroyed.  Take  a  case. 
Wordsworth's  heart  leaps  up  when  he  beholds  a  rain- 
bow in  the  sky.  Elliott,  with  as  deep  appreciation, 
would  feel  his  heart  bowed  down.  Wordsworth  would 
find  companions  in  the  stones  and  sheep,  to  gaze  with 
him,  and  to  enjoy  the  sight.  Elliott  would  think  of 
men,  with  hearts    like  his  own,  who   had  not  often 

VOL.  I.  13 


194  LECTURES  AND  ESSAYS. 

seen  a  rainbow,  or  the  sun  that  makes  one.  Take 
another  case.  In  the  gallows,  with  all  its  terrible  and 
retributative  associations,  Wordsworth  beholds  the  sol- 
emn action  of  society  upon  guilt,  and  he  pours  around 
it  the  mystic  halo  of  his  genius  in  high-sounding 
sonnets.  Were  it  not  almost  profane,  we  might 
call  some  of  them  the  Hangman's  Hymns.  Elliott 
would  see  in  the  gallows,  especially  the  English  gal- 
lows, the  fatal  consummation  of  a  social  tragedy,  in 
which  the  poor  were  victims,  —  the  poor,  ignorant  by 
neglect,  vicious  by  ignorance,  and  exterminated  by 
vice. 

Take  one  case  more.  "  Love  "  is  with  all  poets  a 
universal  passion  ;  and  in  prose  and  verse  it  is  the 
inspiration  of  all  that  is  ideal  and  imaginative  in  litera- 
ture. Elliott's  very  heart  is  on  fire  with  it,  and  strike 
the  chord  as  poet  may,  no  bard  sounds  a  higher  note 
than  his.  But  bards  in  general  warble  the  song  as  one 
in  which  all  beings  can  join  chorus,  the  captive  with 
the  king,  the  beggar  with  the  bird.  Elliott,  feeling  the 
truth  and  power  of  love  in  his  own  soul,  but,  in  an 
equal  degree  knowing,  from  practical  sympathy,  how 
the  oppressed  are  deprived  of  it,  sings  rather  differ- 
ently. He  is  right,  most  right ;  for  a  slave  there  is 
no  genuine  love,  and  bravely  thus,  and  honestly,  he 
chaunts  it : 


EBENEZER   ELLIOTT.  195 

"  Slaves !  where  ye  toil  for  tyrants,  Love  is  not : 
Love's  noblest  temple  is  the  freeman's  cot ! 
What  though  each  blast  its  humble  thatch  uptear, 
Bold  shall  the  tyrant  be  that  enters  there. 
Look  up  and  see,  where,  throned  on  alpine  snow, 
Valor  disdains  the  bondsman's  vales  below  : 
So,  Love,  companion  of  the  wolf,  may  roam, 
And  in  the  desert  find  a  boundless  home ; 
But  will  not  bow  the  knee  to  pomp  and  pride, 
Where  slaves  of  slaves  with  hate  and  fear  reside. 
What  are  the  glories  that  Oppression  throws 
Around  his  vainly-guarded  throne  of  woes ; 
The  marbles  of  divinity,  and  all 
That  decks  pale  Freedom's  pomp  of  funeral  1 
Let  Grandeur's  home,  o'er  subject  fields  and  floods. 
Rise,  like  a  mountain  clad  in  wintry  woods. 
And  columns  tall,  of  marble  wrought,  uphold 
The  spiry  roof,  and  ceilings  coved  in  gold ; 
But  better  than  the  palace  and  the  slave 
Is  Nature's  cavern  that  o'erlooks  the  wave, 
Rock-paved  beneath,  and  granite-arched  above, 
If  Independence  sojourn  there  with  Love !  " 

Elliott,  in  description,  overlays  his  subject.  He  is 
prolific  and  luxuriant  to  a  fault.  The  characteristic 
beauties  of  an  object,  or  a  scene,  are  lost  in  his  profu- 
sion and  his  amplitude.  But  perhaps  this  is  more  than 
compensated  for  by  his  wild  wealth  of  power.     Out  of 


196  LECTURES    AND    ESSAYS. 

this  he  pours  a  prodigal  irregularity,  even  as  Nature 
herself  pours  it.  Elliott  makes  poor  work  when  he 
attempts  humor.  It  is  the  elephant  essaying  the  gam- 
bols and  grimaces  of  the  monkey.  His  mind  is  too 
large,  too  massive,  and  too  unwieldy  for  the  lighter 
graces  of  humor.  It  is  too  sad,  too  earnest,  too  dark, 
too  passionate,  for  the  gigantic  banter,  the  Polyphemus- 
like laughter  of  Pantagruelism.  It  is  too  tender,  too 
full  of  sympathy  and  humanity,  for  the  sardonic  and 
sarcastic  ridicule  of  Mephistophelianism.  Pensive  in 
the  field,  excited  in  the  crowd,  mixing  sensations  and 
impressions  from  both  with  the  workings  of  his  fine 
but  sombre  imagination,  and  with  the  pantings  of 
his  strong  but  gentle  heart,  he  becomes  truly  great ; 
great,  because  then  he  combines  his  poetic  with  his 
actual  life ;  and  therein  consists  his  power.  He  is  a 
Titanic  workman,  singing  his  terrible  song  of  Labor. 
He  is  the  ^Eschylus  of  toil.  He  is  the  solemn  tragic 
genius  of  England's  artisans.  Hood  was  the  female- 
mind  of  those  who  earn  Death  by  the  sweat  of  the 
brow.  Of  such,  Elliott  is  the  masculine  mind.  The 
genius  of  Elliott  is  to  that  of  Hood,  as  the  song  of  the 
sledge  would  be  to  "  The  Song  of  the  Shirt ; "  and  yet, 
withal,  he  has  ever  and  again  tones  of  such  sweetness 
as  need  a  pen  dipped  in  tears  to  write  them.  Here  is 
a  gush  of  this  kind : 


EBENEZER   ELLIOTT.  197 

"  The  meanest  thing  to  which  we  hid  adieu, 
Loses  its  meanness  in  the  parting  hour. 
When  long-neglected  worth  seems  horn  anew, 
The  heart  that  scorns  earth's  pageantry  and  power 
May  melt  in  tears,  or  break,  to  quit  a  flower." 

Then  hear  this  scathing,  this  fierce,  this  indignant 
cry: 

"  Shall  /,  lost  Britain  !  give  the  pest  a  name 
That,  like  a  cancer,  eat  into  thy  core  ? 
'T  is  Avarice,  hungry  as  devouring  flame  ; 
But,  swallowing  all,  it  hungers  as  before, 
While  flame,  its  food  exhausted,  burns  no  more. 
O  ye  hard  hearts  that  grind  the  poor,  and  crush 
Their  honest  pride,  and  drink  their  blood  in  wine, 
And  eat  their  children's  bread  without  a  blush, 
Wilhng  to  wallow  in  your  pomp,  like  swine, 
Why  do  ye  wear  the  human  form  divine  1 
Can  ye  make  men  of  brutes,  contemn'd,  enslav'd? 
Can  ye  grow  sweetness  on  the  bitter  rue  ? 
Can  ye  restore  the  health  of  minds  deprav'd  1 
And  self-esteem  in  blighted  hearts  renew  1 
Why  should  souls  die  to  feed  such  worms  as  you? 
Numidian  !  who  didst  say  to  hated  Rome  — 
'  There  is  no  buyer  yet  to  purchase  thee  ! ' 
Come,  from  the  damn'd  of  old,  Jugurtha,  come ! 
See  one  Rome  fall'n  !  —  another,  mightier,  see ! 
A  nd  tell  us  what  the  second  Rome  shall  be ! 


198  LECTURES  AND  ESSAYS. 

But  long,  O  Heav'n  !  avert  from  this  sad  land 

The  conflict  of  the  many  with  the  few, 

When,  crumpled,  like  a  leaf,  in  havock's  hand. 

The  great,  the  old,  shall  vanish  from  the  view, 

And  slaves  be  men,  all  traitors,  and  all  true ! 

Nor  from  the  fierce  and  iron-breathing  North, 

That  grimly  blossoms  with  the  sword  and  spear, 

Call  a  new  Alaric  and  his  robbers  forth, 

To  crush  what  worth  is  left  untrampled  here. 

And  shake  from  Freedom's  urn  dust  still  too  dear, 

While  trade-left  Thames  pours  mute  his  shipless  wave ! ' ' 

An  excellent  aphorism  is  the  following  couplet,  one 
that  should  live  in  the  hearts  of  statesmen  : 

"  For  they  who  fling  the  poor  man's  worth  away, 
Root  out  security,  and  plant  dismay." 

Elliott,  poet  as  he  is,  nay,  just  because  he  is  a 
poet,  cannot  see  all  deformity  in  the  steam-fed  city. 
Poetry  is  not  all  beauty.  Poetry  is  power,  free- 
dom, and  passion  as  well.  Indeed,  beauty  is  sub- 
ordinate in  comparison  to  these.  Whatever  exhibits 
human  power  in  connection  with  human  passion, 
has  poetry  in  it,  and  greatest  poetry.  It  is  in  cities, 
therefore,  that  the  mightiest  of  poets  have  been 
trained.      Steam  is  a  marvellous  agency,  an  almost 


EBENEZER   ELLIOTT.  199 

miraculous  adaptation  of  man's  invention  to  man's 
wants.  It  were  strange  if  the  poet  in  the  nineteenth 
century  could  pass  it  over,  or  only  find  it  prosaic  and 
repulsive.  Elliott  could  not  do  so ;  and  his  lines  ac- 
cordingly, on  "  Steam  at  Sheffield,"  are  among  the 
grandest  and  the  most  inspired  of  his  compositions. 
Steam  does  not,  as  some  assert,  put  man  behind  the 
mechanism.  Not  so.  Man  is  in  the  mechanism.  What 
is  man  at  any  time  without  a  machine  ?  But  steam 
becomes  more  and  more  united  with  man's  life,  and 
interests,  and  fate ;  and  I  repeat,  it  were  strange, 
passing  strange,  if  out  of  these  no  poetry  could  be 
extracted  : 

"Oh,  there  is  glorious  harmony  in  this 
Tempestuous  music  of  the  giant,  Steam, 
Commingling  growl,  and  roar,  and  stamp,  and  hiss, 
With  flame  and  darkness !  Like  a  Cyclop's  dream. 
It  stuns  our  wondering  souls,  that  start  and  scream 
With  joy  and  terror ;  while,  like  gold  on  snow. 
Is  morning's  beam  on  Andrew's  hoary  hair  ! 
Like  gold  on  pearl  is  morning  on  his  brow  ! 
His  hat  is  in  his  hand,  his  head  is  bare ; 
And,  rolUng  wide  his  sightless  eyes,  he  stands 
Before  this  metal  god,  that  yet  shall  chase 
The  tyrant  idols  of  remotest  lands. 
Preach  science  to  the  desert,  and  efface 
The  barren  curse  from  every  pathless  place." 


200  LECTURES    AND    ESSAYS. 

"  The  Ranter  "  is  a  noble  strain,  and  in  the  highest 
mood  of  Elliott's  genius.  Here  is  a  blast  trumpet- 
toned  on  the  Puritan  pilgrims  : 

"  O  for  a  Saint,  like  those  who  sought  and  found, 
For  conscience'  sake,  sad  homes  beyond  the  main ! 
The  Fathers  of  New  England,  who  unbound, 
In  wild  Columbia,  Europe's  double  chain  ; 
The  men  whose  dust  cries,  '  Sparta,  live  again  ! ' 
The  slander'd  Calvinists  of  Charles's  time 
Fought  (and  they  won  it)  Freedom's  holy  fight. 
Like  prophet-bards,  although  they  hated  rhyme, 
All  incorruptible  as  heaven's  own  light, 
Spoke  each  devoted  preacher  for  the  right. 
No  servile  doctrines,  such  as  power  approves. 
They  to  the  poor  and  broken-hearted  taught ; 
With  truths  that  tyrants  dread,  and  conscience  loves, 
They  wing'd  and  barb'd  the  arrows  of  their  thought ; 
Sin  in  high  places  was  the  mark  they  sought ; 
They  said  not,  '  Man  be  circumspect  and  thrive  ! 
Be  mean,  base,  slavish,  bloody  —  and  prevail ! ' 
Nor  doth  the  Deity  they  worshipp'd  drive 
His  four-in-hand,  applaud  a  smutty  tale, 
Send  Members  to  the  House,  and  us  to  gaol. 
With  zeal  they  preach'd,  with  reverence  they  were  heard ; 
For  in  their  daring  creed,  sublime,  sincere, 
Danger  was  found,  that  parson-hated  word  ! 
They  flatter'd  none  —  they  knew  nor  hate  nor  fear, 
But  taught  the  will  of  God  — and  did  it  here. 


EBENEZER   ELLIOTT.  201 

Even  as  the  fire-wing'd  thunder  rends  the  cloud, 
Their  spoken  Hghtnings,  dazzling  all  the  land, 
Abash'd  the  foreheads  of  the  great  and  proud, 
StiU'd  faction's  roar,  as  by  a  god's  command,  . 

And  meeken'd  Cromwell  of  the  iron  hand." 

I  cannot  fancy  any  words  that  toil-starved  poverty 
can  conceive  of  sadder  pathos  than  this  low  plaint : 

SONG. 

Tune  —  «  The  Land  o'  the  Leal," 

"  Where  the  poor  cease  to  pay. 

Go,  lov'd  one,  and  rest ! 
Thou  art  wearing  away 

To  the  land  of  the  blest. 
Our  father  is  gone 

Where  the  wrong'd  are  forgiven, 
And  that  dearest  one, 

Thy  husband,  in  heaven. 

**  No  toU  in  despair, 

No  tyrant,  no  slave. 
No  bread-tax  is  there, 

With  a  maw  like  the  grave. 
But  the  poacher,  thy  pride, 

Whelm'd  in  ocean  afar ; 
And  his  brother,  who  died 

Land-butcher'd  in  war ; 


202  LECTURES  AND  ESSAYS.  ' 

"  And  their  mother,  who  sank 

Broken-hearted  to  rest ; 
And  the  baby,  that  drank 

Till  it  froze  on  her  breast ; 
With  tears,  and  with  smiles, 

Are  waiting  for  thee, 
In  the  beautiful  isles 

Where  the  wrong'd  are  the  free. 

"Go,  loved  one,  and  rest 

Where  the  poor  cease  to  pay ! 
To  the  land  of  the  blest 

Thou  art  wearing  away  ; 
But  the  son  of  thy  pain 

Will  yet  stay  with  me, 
And  poor  little  Jane 

Look  sadly  like  thee." 

An  extract  from  a  poem  entitled  "  Win-Hill,"  *  or 
"The  Curse  of  God,"  will  show  to  what  sublimity 
Elliott  can  attain : 

*'  Thy  voice  is  like  thy  Father's,  dreadful  storm ! 

Earth  hears  his  whisper,  when  thy  clouds  are  torn  I 
And  Nature's  tremor  bids  our  sister-worm 

Sink  in  the  ground.     But  they  who  laugh  to  scorn 


*  The  central  mountain  —  not  the  highest  —  of  the  Peak  of  Der- 
byshire. 


EBENEZER   ELLIOTT.  203 

The  trampled  heart  which  want  and  toil  have  worn, 
Fear  thee,  and  laugh  at  Him,  whose  warning  word 

Speaks  from  thy  clouds,  on  burning  billows  borne  ; 
For,  in  their  hearts,  his  voice  they  never  heard, 
Ne'er  felt  his  chastening  hand,  nor  pined  with  hope  deferr'd. 

*'  O  Thou  whose  whispering  is  the  thunder !  Power 

Eternal,  world-attended,  yet  alone  ! 
O  give,  at  least,  to  labor's  hopeless  hour 

That  peace,  which  Thou  deny'st  not  to  a  stone ! 

The  famine-smitten  millions  cease  to  groan  ; 
When  wilt  Thou  hear  their  mute  and  long  despair  ? 

Lord,  help  the  poor !  for  they  are  all  thy  own. 
Wilt  Thou  not  help  1  did  I  not  hear  Thee  swear  • 
That  Thou  would'st  tame  the  proud,  and  grant  their  victims' 
prayer  ? 

*'  Methought  I  saw  Thee  in  the  dreams  of  sleep. 

This  mountain,  Father,  groan 'd  beneath  thy  heel ! 
Thy  other  foot  was  placed  on  Kinder's  steep  ; 

Before  thy  face  I  saw  the  planets  reel. 

While  earth  and  skies  shone  bright  as  molten  steel ; 
For  under  all  the  stars  Thou  took'st  thy  stand, 

And  bad'st  the  ends  of  heaven  behold  and  feel, 
That  thou  to  all  thy  worlds  had'st  stretch 'd  thine  hand, 
And  curs'd  for  evermore  the  Legion-Fiend  of  Land !  " 

And  now  a  gentle  tone  : 

"  Sleep,  sleep  my  love !  thy  gentle  bard 
Shall  wake,  his  fevered  maid  to  guard  : 


304  LECTURES  AND  ESSAYS. 

The  moon  in  heaven  rides  high  ; 
The  dim  stars  through  thy  curtains  peep  ; 
Whilst  thou,  poor  sufferer,  triest  to  sleep, 

They  hear  thy  feeble  cry. 

*'  She  sleeps  !  but  pain,  though  baffled,  streaks, 
With  intermitting  blush,  her  cheeks. 

And  haunts  her  troubled  dream  : 
Yet  shalt  thou  wake  to  health,  my  love, 
And  seek  again  the  blue-bell'd  grove, 

And  music-haunted  stream." 

Take  the  following  as  a  specimen  of  Elliott's  pathos 

THE  BROKEN  HEART. 

"  Stop,  passenger !  for  I  am  weak. 
And  heavy  are  my  falling  feet — 
Stop  !  till  I  gather  strength  to  speak  : 
Twice  have  I  seen  thee  cross  the  street. 
Where  wo  and  wild-flowers  seldom  meet. 

'*  O  give  a  pallid  flower  to  her 

Who  ne'er  again  will  see  one  grow ! 
Give  me  a  primrose,  passenger  ! 
That  I  may  bless  it  ere  I  go 
To  my  false  love,  in  death  laid  low. 

"  Sweet  —  sweet !  it  breathes  of  Rother's  bowers, 
Where,  like  the  stream,  my  childhood  play'd  ; 
And,  happy  as  the  birds  and  flowers. 


EBENEZEE   ELLIOTT.  205 

My  love  and  I  together  strayed, 

Far  from  the  dim  town's  deadly  shade. 

"  Why  did  he  leave  my  mother's  cot? 
My  days  of  trouble  then  began  : 
I  followed,  but  he  knew  me  not ! 
The  stripling  had  become  a  man  ! 
And  now  in  heaven  he  waits  for  Ann. 

"  Back  from  consumption's  streeted  gloom, 
To  death's  green  fields,  I  fain  would  fly  ;    ' 
In  yon  churchyard  there  is  no  room 
For  broken-hearted  flowers  to  sigh, 
And  look  on  heaven  before  they  die." 

Yet  here  is  an  illustration,  if  possible,  more  touch- 
ing: 

THE  DYING  BOY  TO  THE  SLOE  BLOSSOM. 

"  Before  thy  leaves  thou  com'st  once  more, 

White  blossom  of  the  sloe ! 
Thy  leaves  will  come  as  heretofore  ; 
But  this  poor  heart,  its  troubles  o'er, 

Will  then  lie  low. 

"  A  month  at  least  before  thy  time 
Thoii  com'st,  pale  flower,  to  me  ; 
For  well  thou  know'st  the  frosty  lime 
Will  blast  me  ere  my  vernal  prime, 
No  more  to  be. 


206  LECTURES  AND  ESSAYS. 

*'  Why  here  in  winter?     No  storm  lowers 

O'er  Nature's  silent  shroud  ! 
But  blithe  larks  meet  the  sunny  showers, 
High  o'er  the  doomed  untimely  flowers 

In  beauty  bowed. 

"  Sweet  violets,  in  the  budding  grove, 
Peep  where  the  glad  waves  run  ; 
The  wren  below,  the  thrush  above. 
Of  bright  to-morrow's  joy  and  love 
Sing  to  the  sun. 

"And  where  the  rose-leaf,  ever  bold. 
Hears  bees  chant  hymns  to  God, 
The  breeze-bowed  palm,  mossed  o'er  with  gold. 
Smiles  on  the  well  in  summer  cold, 
And  daisied  sod, 

"  But  thou,  pale  blossom,  thou  art  come, 
And  flowers  in  winter  blow. 
To  tell  me  that  the  worm  makes  room 
For  me,  her  brother,  in  the  tomb, 
And  thinks  me  slow. 

*'  For  as  the  rainbow  of  the  dawn 

Foretells  an  eve  of  tears, 
A  sunbeam  on  the  saddened  lawn 
I  smile,  and  weep  to  be  withdrawn 

In  early  years. 


EBENEZER    ELLIOTT.  207 

"  Thy  leaves  will  come  !  but  songful  spring 
Will  see  no  leaf  of  mine  ; 
Her  bells  will  ring,  her  bride's-maids  sing, 
When  my  young  leaves  are  withering 
Where  no  suns  shine. 

"  O  might  I  breathe  morn's  dewy  breath, 
When  June's  sweet  Sabbath's  chime ! 

But,  thine  before  my  time,  O  death  ! 

I  go  where  no  flower  blossometh, 
Before  my  time. 

"  Even  as  the  blushes  of  the  mom 

Vanish,  and  long  ere  noon 
The  dew-drop  dieth  on  the  thorn. 
So  fair  I  bloomed  ;  and  was  I  born 

To  die  as  soon  1 

"  To  love  my  mother  and  to  die  — 

To  perish  in  my  bloom  ! 
Is  this  my  sad  brief  history  ?  — 
A  tear  dropped  from  a  mother's  eye 

Into  the  tomb. 

"  He  lived  and  loved  —  will  sorrow  say  — 

By  early  sorrow  tried  ; 
He  smiled,  he  sighed,  he  past  away  ; 
His  life  was  but  an  April  day  — 

He  loved  and  died  ! 


208  LECTURES  AND  ESSAYS. 

"  My  mother  smiles,  then  turns  away, 

But  turns  away  to  weep  : 
They  whisper  round  me  —  what  they  say 
I  need  not  hear,  for  in  the  clay 

I  soon  must  sleep. 

"Oh,  love  is  sorrow  !  sad  it  is 

To  be  both  tried  and  true  ; 
I  ever  trembled  in  my  bliss  ; 
Now  there  are  farewells  in  a  kiss  — 

They  sigh  adieu. 

**  But  woodbines  flaunt  when  blue-bells  fade, 
Where  Don  reflects  the  skies  ; 
And  many  a  youth  in  Shire-cliffs'  shade 
Will  ramble  where  my  boyhood  played. 
Though  Alfred  dies. 

"  Then  panting  woods  the  breeze  will  feel, 
And  bowers,  as  heretofore. 

Beneath  their  load  of  roses  reel ; 

But  I  through  woodbined  lanes  shall  steal 
No  more,  no  more. 

"  Well,  lay  me  by  my  brother's  side, 
Where  late  we  stood  and  wept ; 

For  I  was  stricken  when  he  died  — 

I  felt  the  arrow  as  he  sighed 
His  last  and  slept." 


EBENEZER   ELLIOTT.  209 

I  find  that  I  could,  did  I  follow  my  inclination,  make 
a  volume,  and  not  an  essay,  by  mere  extracts ;  but  I 
must  deny  my  desire,  and  close  with  two  short  poems, 
which  paint  in  glowing  words  the  author's  own  char- 
acter and  genius. 

A  POET. 

**  Child  of  the  Hopeless !  two  hearts  broke 

When  thou  wast  orphan'd  here : 
They  left  a  treasure  in  thy  breast, 

The  soul  of  Pity's  tear. 
And  thou  must  be  —  not  what  thou  wilt ; — 

Say  then,  what  would'st  thou  be? 
'  A  Poet !'     Oh,  if  thou  would'st  steep 

Deep  thoughts  in  ecstasy, 

"  Nor  poet  of  the  rich  be  thou, 
Nor  poet  of  the  poor  ; 
Nor  harper  of  the  swarming  town, 

Nor  minstrel  of  the  moor ; 
But  be  the  bard  of  all  mankind. 

The  prophet  of  all  time, 
And  tempt  the  saints  in  heaven  to  steal 
Earth's  truth-created  rhyme* 

"  Be  the  Columbus  of  a  world 

Where  wisdom  knows  not  fear  ; 
The  Homer  of  a  race  of  men 
Who  need  not  sword  and  spear. 
TOL.  I.  14 


210        Lectures  and  essays. 

God  in  thy  heart,  and  God  in  thee, 
If  thou  to  men  canst  show, 

Thou  makest  mortals  angels  here, 
Their  home  a  heaven  below. 

"  Upon  a  rock  thou  sett'st  thy  feet, 
And  callest  Death  thy  slave  : 

*  Here  lies  a  man  ! '  Eternity 

Shall  write  upon  thy  grave  ; 

*  A  Bard  lies  here  !  —  O  softly  tread, 

Ye  never-wearied  years  ! 
And  bless,  O  World,  a  memory 
Immortal  as  thy  tears  !'  " 


A  POET'S  EPITAPH. 

"  Stop,  Mortal !    Here  thy  brother  lies, 

The  Poet  of  the  Poor. 
His  books  were  rivers,  woods,  and  skies, 

The  meadow,  and  the  moor  ; 
His  teachers  were  the  torn  hearts'  wail, 

The  tyrant,  and  the  slave, 
The  street,  the  factory,  the  jail. 

The  palace  —  and  the  grave  ! 
The  meanest  thing,  earth's  feeblest  worm, 

He  fear'd  to  scorn  or  hate  ; 
And  honor'd  in  a  peasant's  form 

The  equal  of  the  great. 


EBENEZER    ELLIOTT.  211 

But  if  he  lov'd  the  rich  who  make 

The  poor  man's  little  more, 
111  could  he  praise  the  rich  who  take 

From  plunder'd  labor's  store. 
A  hand  to  do,  a  head  to  plan, 

A  heart  to  feel  and  dare — 
Tell  man's  worst  foes,  here  lies  the  man 

Who  drew  them  as  they  are." 

The  battle  for  labor  has  been  manfully  carried  on ; 
and  the  battle  for  labor  has  been  a  battle  for  freedom. 
Every  gain  to  the  rights  of  industry  has  been  equally 
a  gain  to  the  rights  of  liberty.  The  franchise  of  toil 
has  advanced  the  franchise  of  thought ;  and  the  inde- 
pendence of  handicraft  has  extended  the  independence 
of  humanity.  The  man  of  privilege  is  the  man  of  the 
Past ;  the  man  of  labor  is  the  man  of  the  Future. 
The  man  of  the  Future,  even  in  England,  gains  on 
the  man  of  the  Past ;  but  the  man  of  the  Past,  though 
enfeebled,  is  not  destroyed,  and  it  is  not  desirable  that 
he  should  be.  He  is  a  portion  of  the  national  mem- 
ory, and  he  is  worthy  of  existence  as  an  agei^J  in 
national  civilization.  As  yet  he  has  had  no  reason  to 
complain.  He  still  stands  upon  dark  and  massive 
battlements,  and  proudly  unfurls  the  banner  which  was 
won  at  Cressy  or  Agincourt.  Commerce,  however, 
has  stript  forests  from   his  hills,  to  spread  mightier 


212  LECTURES   ANt)   ESSAYS. 

forests  on  the  sea ;  his  flag  is  obscured  in  the  smoke 
of  increasing  manufactures,  and  the  music  of  his  halls 
grows  faint  in  the  din  of  surrounding  looms  and  ham- 
mers. 

The  social  changes  of  England  have  been  antici- 
pated by  no  extended  foresight,  and  they  have  been 
met  by  no  adequate  preparation.  The  external  great- 
ness of  the  country  has  been  enlarged,  but  the  poor 
man's  comforts  have  been  diminished  ;  and  this 
wretchedness  the  poor  man  endures  under  the  heavy 
aggravation  of  most  painful  contrast.  His  lair  is  in 
the  midst  of  palaces ;  his  empty  basket  is  surrounded 
by  luxury,  which  earth  is  exhausted  to  supply  ;  he 
faints  by  the  odor  of  feasts  upon  his  weakness,  as  he 
passes  by  the  halls  of  banqueting,  and  his  squalid  rags 
are  spurned  by  the  pampered  menial  that  shrinks  from 
him  in  the  street.  And  why,  he  asks  himself,  is  this  ? 
Why,  with  honesty  and  hands,  have  I  not  at  least  leave 
to  toil  ?  When  toil  is  given  me,  why  have  I  not  leave 
to  live  ?  Because  my  hands  have  been  manacled  by 
restrictive  legislation  ;  because  idleness  has  become 
necessity,  and  starvation,  law ;  because  my  wages  have 
been  swallowed  in  maintaining  privilege  ;  because 
debts,  which  cause  nations  to  stand  aghast,  have  been 
contracted  to  pay  the  mercenaries  of  foreign  despots. 
This  money  has  but  sold  my  days  to  hopeless  servi- 


EBENEZER    ELLIOTT.  21^ 

tude  ;  and  the  victories  of  my  brave  compatriots  have 
given  nothing  to  me,  and  to  my  children,  but  an 
everlasting  inheritance  of  hunger. 

The  statesmen  of  England  have  been  wanting  in 
the  grand  sagacity  which  a  mighty  country  in  extra- 
ordinary times  demanded.  The  manufacturing  power 
of  England  has  in  half  a  century  grown  to  a  huge- 
ness unexampled  in  the  history  of  trade ;  but  nothing 
comparatively  was  done  in  reference  to  this  immense 
revolution.  While  squires  declaimed  in  parliament  on 
the  iniquity  of  poaching,  and  called  for  rigid  laws  to 
save  partridges  from  the  infamy  of  being  shot  by  ple- 
beian gun-powder,  —  while  ministers  taxed  the  country 
for  millions,  to  place  one  fool  on  a  rickety  throne,  in- 
stead of  another,  —  masses  of  human  beings  were 
silently  conglomerating  within  limited  districts,  forming 
a  dense  and  a  peculiar  population.  Who  were  those, 
let  us  ask,  who  constituted  this  population?  They 
were  families,  who,  leaving  their  cabins  behind  them  in 
the  wilds  of  Ireland,  sought  to  escape  famine  in  the 
country,  and  found  it  in  the  city.  They  were  families, 
who,  streaming  down  from  Welsh  and  Scottish  moun-? 
tains,  were  tempted  from  their  cloudy  solitudes  to 
pursue  fortune  in  strange  crowds,  and  met  with  hard- 
ships which  their  sterile  hills  had  never  threatened. 
They  were  families  from   the   green  dells  and  quiet 


214  LECTURES  AND  ESSAYS. 

hamlets  of  England,  whom  high  rents  and  bad  times 
had  scourged  from  the  open  light  of  nature  to  the  filthy 
cellars  of  the  smoky  town.  Collected  thus  from  va- 
rious districts,  by  similar  distress,  they  had  nothing  in 
common  but  ignorance  and  want.  Once  involved  in 
factory  labor,  their  condition  was  destiny.  They  had 
no  other  refuge  on  which  to  fall  back  ;  live  they  might, 
while  work  was  for  them,  and  when  it  failed,  they 
must  be  paupers,  or  they  must  die.  From  the  plough 
to  the  cotton  mill,  was  like  the  passage  to  the  grave ; 
it  could  be  made  but  once,  and  could  never  be  re- 
traced. 

Here,  then,  a  distinctive  class  was  incorporated  with 
the  nation  ;  and  this  class  had  distinctive  wants.  What 
had  been  done  for  these  people  ?  Did  each  person 
bring  from  his  native  district  a  decent  education,  with 
which  his  native  district  had  supplied  him  ?  No  pro- 
vision existed  for  any  such  supply.  Armies  abounded 
for  the  peninsula  of  Europe  and  the  peninsula  of  India, 
but  schoolmasters  were  scarce  for  the  cottages  of 
Ireland  and  the  cottages  of  Britain.  With  solemn 
cathedrals,  and  venerable  colleges,  with  triumph  of 
arms,  and  conquest  of  empires,  England  has  allowed 
generations  of  her  children  to  live  and  die  in  a  most 
forlorn  ignorance ;  with  vast  revenues  for  state,  for 
nobles,  for  hierarchies,  she   has  nothing  to  spare  for 


EBENEZER    ELLIOTT.  215 

the  souls  of  the  poor.  Would  it  be  wonderful,  then, 
if  masses,  thus  goaded  for  mere  existence,  thus  neg- 
lected, should  start  up  in  the  madness  of  their  want 
and  the  fury  of  their  passions,  and  stain  their  age  with 
deeds  which  history  would  shudder  to  record  ?  But  no. 
Gloriously  they  have  borne  misfortune ;  patiently  they 
have  endured  injustice  ;  valiantly,  wisely  and  humanely 
they  will  redress  their  wrongs. 

There  is  hope  for  the  toilsmen  of  England !  Yes  ; 
but  where  ?  In  themselves  ;  not  in  peers  and  princes, 
not  in  parties  or  statesmen  ;  but  in  their  own  stout 
hearts,  in  their  own  enlightened  exertions,  in  their 
own  moral  and  intellectual  exaltation.  The  virtuous 
cannot  be  despised,  and  the  wise  cannot  be  conquered ; 
and  no  one  can  doubt,  who  has  watched  the  progress  of 
events,  that,  within  a  few  years,  virtue  and  wisdom 
have  made  progress  among  the  operatives  of  Britain. 
Thousands  and  thousands  have  passed  blamelessly 
through  suffering,  which  in  other  times  would  have 
had  the  praise  of  martyrdom.  Imprisoned  men,  for- 
getting all  vindictive  feeling,  have  used  their  hours  of 
confinement  to  send  forth  instruction  to  their  brothers, 
clad  in  noble  diction,  and  breathing  a  high  philosophy. 
Humble  men  from  the  Chartist  ranks,  dragged  to  jail 
for  sedition,  have  shown  their  power  for  such  lofty, 
intellectual  and  moral  achievement.     Let  English  toils- 


216  LECTURES  AND  ESSAYS. 

men  take  courage  ;  ay,  and  English  toilswomen  also. 
Have  we  not  evidence  of  graceful  and  elegant  attain- 
ment in  this  country  among  a  laboring  class  of  the  fair 
sex ;  evidence,  that  heads  are  not  idle,  while  hands  are 
busy  ?  American  factory  girls,  with  a  vivacity  of  mind 
which  no  fatigue  can  depress,  have  added  to  our  litera- 
ture ;  and  their  contributions  are  distinguished  by  an 
excellence  of  thought  which  needs  but  small  indulgence 
from  the  critical,  and  by  a  purity  of  sentiment  which 
merits  all  the  praises  of  the  good. 

Let  this  voice  from  the  heart  of  toiling  womanhood 
go  from  the  girls  of  America,  and  fall  upon  the  weary 
spirits  of  their  British  sisters  ;  and  let  it  come  back 
across  the  wild  Atlantic  in  joyous  echoes  of  exulting 
hope.  The  daughters  of  labor,  even  in  England,  may 
not  despair  of  redemption.  The  sons  of  labor  can 
gain  it  for  themselves,  and  help  their  weaker  com- 
panions. They  have  many  examples  and  predecessors ; 
kingly  men,  from  plough  and  hammer,  from  hill-side 
and  dyke.  An  era,  I  would  fain  believe,  is  coming  for 
the  English  toilsman,  when  his  labor  will  purchase  him 
more  than  a  living  death ;  when  an  existence  will  be 
fairly  within  his  reach,  which  will  include  whatever 
confers  pure  enjoyment  and  moral  elevation ;  he  will 
then  be  sustained  in  his  own  self-respect.  He  will  not 
be  ashamed  of  a  virtuous  calling  ;  and  none  will  dare 


EBENEZER    ELLIOTT.  217 

to  regard  his  position  with  contempt ;  no  dastard  blush 
will  suffuse  the  brow  which  has  been  wrinkled  by  the 
care  of  a  hard  but  honest  occupation ;  and  the  hand 
will  seek  no  concealment,  which  has  been  roughened 
by  industry,  but  has  never  been  soiled  by  corruption. 
Under  any  circumstances,  in  any  state  of  things,  in  any 
country,  if  we  appreciate  truth  and  reality  ;  if  we  are 
not  cheated  by  sham,  and  glare,  and  vanity  ;  if  we  are 
not  deceived  by  gaud  and  shadow,  —  the  fustian  which 
covers  an  upright  soul  is  a  garb  of  honor ;  and  that  is 
the  most  kingly  sheen  which  clothes  the  most  kingly 
worth. 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


Oliver  Goldsmith  was  born  November  10,  1728, 
in  Pallas,  County  of  Longford,  Ireland.  Other  places 
contend  for  the  honor  of  his  birth,  but  this  has  the 
claim  of  authority.  His  father  was  a  clergyman  of 
numerous  family,  and  of  slender  means ;  with  no 
faculty  of  economy,  and  a  strong  desire  for  expendi- 
ture. It  is  needless  to  dwell  minutely  on  a  life  so  well 
known  as  his,  or  one  that  may  so  easily  be  known. 
His  childhood  had  some  eccentricities,  and  his  college 
career  was  marked  by  a  few  rows  and  freaks ;  but  with 
all  his  wildness,  his  writings  show  that  the  kind  heart 
of  his  childhood  continued  fresh  to  the  end,  and  that 
his  college  experience  left  him,  at  least,  classical  know- 
ledge and  classical  tastes.  Having  been  a  medical 
student  in  Edinburgh  and  Leyden,  then,  he  became  a 
penniless  wanderer  on  the  continent  of  Europe ;  after 
piping  to  peasants  and  spouting  in  convents,  he  returned 


OLIVER   GOLDSMITH.  219 

to  London,  and,  there,  he  began  as  a  drudge  to  peda- 
gogues, and  ended  as  a  drudge  to  publishers.  The 
amount  of  desultory  composition  on  every  topic,  which, 
for  years,  he  furnished  to  his  employers,  must  excite 
our  wonder;  but  that  which  most  excites  it,  is  the 
general  beauty  which  distinguishes  these  compositions, 
and  the  pittance  by  which  they  were  recompensed. 
Herein,  however,  was  the  consolation  of  his  privacy. 
He  was  just  to  his  own  powers ;  he  gratified  his  own 
fine  taste ;  labor  was  mitigated  by  an  inward  sense  of 
dignity ;  and  he  was  saved  from  that  weight  of  lassi- 
tude, which  presses  upon  no  hireling  with  so  deadly  an 
influence,  as  upon  the  hireling  of  literature.  At  last, 
he  toiled  his  way  to  fame ;  but  his  expenditure  outran 
his  prosperity.  Accustomed,  hitherto,  to  small  sums, 
moderate  ones  seemed  exhaustless,  and  on  this  delusion 
of  a  poor  man,  unacquainted  with  money  and  the  world, 
he  acted. 

Always  thoughtless,  he  now  became  lavish ;  he  not 
only  spent  his  money,  but  anticipated  work ;  he  not 
only  emptied  his  purse,  but  he  (Jrew  extravagantly 
on  his  faculties.  He  was  in  arrears  with  his  publishers 
for  books,  not  finished,  even  for  books  to  be  written. 
With  much  to  pay,  and  nothing  to  receive ;  with  diffi- 
culties pressing  on  the  mental  power,  which  was  re- 
quired in  its  utmost  vigor  to  remove  them  ;  his  life  was 


220  LECTURES  AND  ESSAYS. 

approaching  to  a  crisis.  A  fever,  rendered  fatal  by 
distress  of  mind,  and  by  his  own  injudicious  treatment, 
carried  him  off  in  the  forty-sixth  year  of  his  age.  Dr. 
Johnson,  who  did  not  often  expose  his  sensibility,  was 
extremely  moved  ;  and  Edmund  Burke  burst  into  tears. 
It  was  computed  that  his  debts,  when  he  died,  amounted 
to  two  thousand  pounds,  upon  which  Dr.  Johnson  ex- 
claims, in  a  letter  to  Boswell,  "  Was  poet  ever  so  trusted 
before  .? "  So  loved,  indeed,  was  Goldsmith,  that  the 
tradesmen,  to  whom  part  of  this  was  due,  murmured 
no  complaint;  put  no  stain  upon  his  memory;  but 
following  departed  genius  with  thoughts  of  charity, 
their  affectionate  observation  was,  that,  if  he  had  lived, 
he  would  have  paid  them  all.  Ay !  if  he  had  lived ! 
if  he  had  lived,  he  would  have  paid  them  all ;  and 
how  much,  too,  would  he  have  given  to  the  world,  in 
addition  to  that  obligation  which  the  world  never 
discharged  !  The  greater  part  of  the  debt  which 
encumbered  the  last  days  of  his  earthly  existence, 
was  one,  for  which  booksellers  held  a  mortgage  upon 
his  mind.  To  many  of  these  men,  his  mind  was  a  foun- 
tain of  wealth  ;  and  to  us,  it  is  a  fountain  of  instruction 
and  enjoyment.  Cotemporaries  gave  Goldsmith  a 
tomb ;  his  most  venerable  companion  gave  him  an 
epitaph ;  posterity  have  given  him  their  hearts.  Few 
can  see  the  tomb;  few  can  understand  the  language 


OLIVER   GOLDSMITH.  221 

of  the  epitaph  ;  but  millions  love  his  genius,  and  in  the 
memory  of  their  living  affections,  they  enshrine  his 
name. 

After  all,  his  fate  was  not  worse  than  others  in 
his  class.  No  man  heard  where,  or  cared  how,  Chat- 
terton  groaned  away  his  soul ;  so  his  heart  broke 
in  agony,  and  no  Bristol  trader  inquired  about  the 
unhappy  but  inspired  boy,  who,  perhaps,  grew  up 
beside  his  threshold.  He  knew  nothing  of  the  market 
or  the  stocks,  and  nobody  listened  to  him,  and  nobody 
cared  for  him,  and  nobody  heard  him.  He  was  alone  ; 
his  brother  was  not  near  him  ;  his  sister  knew  not  of 
the  despair  that  gathered  upon  his  sinking  heart.  He 
looked  around  him,  and  all  was  gloomy,  all  was  dismal. 
He  did  not  wait  for  starvation  to  do  its  worst ;  but,  ere 
it  could  come  to  wither  and  to  kill  him,  from  some  pro- 
cess, easy  as  that  of  a  bare  bodkin,  he  sought  his  last 
and  long  quietus  ;  and  where  he  sought,  he  found  it. 

The  character  of  Goldsmith,  is  one  which  does  not 
tax  analysis ;  it  is  felt  by  instinct ;  and  that  happy 
phrase,  "  good  natured,"  defines  it  with  a  singular 
accuracy.  Goldsmith's  good  nature,  though  it  ex- 
hausted his  purse,  did  not  exhaust  itself.  It  was  an 
unfailing  well-spring ;  it  was  ever  pure  and  fresh, 
bubbling  from  a  copious  fountain  of  kindness,  and 
refreshmg  life  around  him  with  streams  of  gaiety,  of 


222  LECTURES  AND  ESSAYS. 

fondness,  and  of  pity.  There  was  a  benignity  in  him 
which  gave  his  heart  an  interest  in  the  humblest  crea- 
ture. Early  in  life,  in  writing  home,  he  says,  "  if  there 
be  a  favorite  dog  in  the  family,  let  me  be  remembered 
to  him."  His  attachment  to  children  was  as  strong  as 
it  was  amiable.  The  younger  Colman  speaks  in  rap- 
ture of  his  acquaintance  with  Goldsmith,  when  in  infant 
insolence  he  used  to  tweak  the  poet's  nose ;  and  the 
poet,  in  return,  played  thimble-rig  with  the  child.  Nor 
was  this  merely  deference  to  the  son  of  a  rich  man  and 
a  critic.  Goldsmith  was  an  idol,  also,  to  the  children 
of  the  poor ;  it  was  his  common  practice  to  go  among 
them  with  pockets  full  of  gingerbread,  and  to  set  them 
dancing  to  the  sound  of  his  flute.  His,  in  every  scene, 
was  a  simple  nature ;  and  he,  around  whom  rustics 
pranced  on  the  banks  of  the  Loire,  was  the  same 
around  whom  ragged  innocents  gabbled  and  rejoiced 
in  the  garrets  of  Old  Bailey.  Goldsmith's  humanity 
to  the  poor,  generally,  was  most  courteous  and  most 
bountiful.  His  charity  would  often  have  been  sublime, 
if  the  improvidence  of  his  temper  did  not  drive  him  to 
contrivances  to  supply  it,  which  gave  it  an  air  of  the 
ludicrous.  One  morning  towards  the  close  of  his  col- 
lege course,  a  cousin  and  fellow-student  of  his  knocked 
at  the  door  of  his  chamber.  No  reply.  He  knocked 
again.     Still  no  reply.     He  then  broke  it  open.     Gold- 


.    OLIVER   GOLDSMITH.  223 

smith  was  in  bed,  literally  in  it,  for  he  was  stuck  bodily 
into  the  feathers.  Some  poor  woman  had  told  him  a 
tragical  story  ;  he  was  out  of  money,  so  he  brought  her 
to  the  college,  and  gave  her  his  blankets. 

Let  me  take  another  instance  from  his  later  life,  an 
instance  which,  as  I  think,  is  most  characteristic  of  the 
author  and  the  man.  Suppose  ourselves  gazing  into  a 
humble  chamber,  in  the  humblest  part  of  London.  A 
ragged  bed  is  in  one  comer,  a  broken  wash-stand  is  in 
another.  A  crazy  table  is  placed  near  a  small  dusty 
window,  and  a  man  sits  by  this  table  on  the  only  chair 
which  the  room  contains.  The  stature  of  the  man  is 
short,  and  his  face  is  pale ;  his  position  has  an  air  of 
thought,  and  his  look,  the  glow  of  fancy.  This  man, 
whose  forehead  bulging  out  with  sentiments  and  ideas, 
so  as  to  defy  all  rules  of  sculpture,  is  ugly  ;  but  he  is 
ugly  only  to  those  who  cannot  see  light  of  the  spirit 
through  the  shrine  of  the  countenance.  To  those  who 
know  the  touch  of  nature  that  makes  all  men  akin,  he 
is  inexpressibly  dear ;  and  they  love  to  gaze  on  his 
homely  portrait,  as  if  it  were  lovely  as  ever  dawned 
upon  a  sculptor's  dream.  The  man  is  Oliver  Goldsmith, 
and  as  we  now  describe  him,  he  is  engaged  in  writing  his 
Essay  On  the  State  of  Polite  Learning  in  Europe.  A 
knock  at  his  lowly  door  arouses  him,  and  a  visitor  enters. 
The  visitor  is  Bishop  Percy,  the  admirable  collector  of 


224  LECTURES  AND  ESSAYS. 

Reliques  of  Ancient  English  Poetry.  Goldsmith  cour- 
teously gives  the  prelate  his  only  chair,  and  takes  him- 
self a  seat  upon  the  window-sill.  They  are  engaged  in 
an  earnest  conversation  on  bellelettres  and  the  fine 
arts,  when  a  ragged  but  decent  little  girl  comes  into  the 
room,  and  with  a  respectful  obeisance  to  Goldsmith, 
says,  "  My  mamma  sends  her  compliments,  sir,  and 
begs  the  favor  of  you  to  lend  her  a  pot  of  coals." 

As  Goldsmith's  fortunes  increased,  so  did  his  gifts ; 
and  food  was  added  to  fuel.  After  he  had  entertained 
a  large  party  at  breakfast,  he  distributed  the  fragments 
among  a  few  poor  women  whom  he  had  kept  waiting 
for  the  purpose.  A  vulgar  guest  remarked,  that  he 
must  be  very  rich  to  afford  such  bounty.  "  It  is  not 
wealth,  my  dear  sir,"  said  Goldsmith,  "  it  is  inclina- 
tion ;  I  have  only  to  suppose  that  a  few  more  friends 
have  been  of  the  party,  and  then  it  amounts  to  the 
same  thing."  He  was,  besides,  always  surrounded  by 
a  circle  of  needy  writers,  whom  he  had  not  the  firm- 
ness to  refuse,  nor  the  prudence  to  discharge.  He 
was  also  beset  by  destitute  countrymen,  who  found  a 
ready  way  to  his  last  shilling,  through  his  compassion 
and  his  patriotism.  To  such  people,  bounty  was  no 
virtue,  but  with  Goldsmith,  pity  gave  ere  charity  began ; 
and  charity  had  always  the  start  of  wisdom.  Much 
as  there  was  in  such  actions  which  implied  want  of 


OLIVER   GOLDSMITH.  225 

purpose  and  want  of  thought ;  there  was  goodness,  too, 
upon  which  no  tone  of  distress  ever  fell  in  vain.  "He 
has  been  known,"  says  Prior,  the  most  genial  of  his 
biographera,  "  to  quit  his  bed  at  night,  and  even  when 
laboring  under  indisposition,  in  order  to  relieve  the 
miserable,  and  when  money  was  scarce,  or,  to  be 
procured  with  difficulty  by  borrowing,  he  has,  never- 
theless, shared  it  with  such  as  presented  any  claims  to 
charity. 

"  At  an  evening  party  of  friends,  he  once  threw 
down  his  cards,  and  rushed  from  the  room,  and  when 
asked  the  cause,  on  his  return,  of  such  an  abrupt 
retreat, '  I  could  not  bear,'  said  he,  *  to  hear  that  unfor- 
tunate woman  in  the  street,  half  singing,  half  sobbing  ; 
for  such  tones  could  only  arise  from  the  extremity  of 
distress  ;  her  voice  grated  painfully  on  my  ear,  so  that 
I  could  not  rest  until  I  had  sent  her  away.'  To  the 
unfortunate,  even  to  those  made  so  by  their  own  errors, 
he  ever  turned  with  the  spirit  of  a  good  Samaritan ; 
and  when  he  had  relieved  them  with  his  money,  he 
pleaded  for  them  with  his  pen.  His  word  was  ever  for 
the  feeble,  the  oppressed,  and  the  unhappy ;  and  pas* 
sages  of  pathetic  eloquence  abound  in  his  writings, 
which  nothing  could  have  inspired,  but  the  finest 
natural  feeling.  '  Who  are  those,'  he  exclaims,  in  the 
character  of  his  citizen  of  the  world,  '  who  make  the 

VOL.   I.  15 


226  LECTURES  AND  ESSAYS. 

Streets  their  couch,  and  find  a  short  repose  from 
wretchedness  at  the  doors  of  the  opulent  ?  These  are 
strangers,  wanderers,  orphans,  whose  circumstances  are 
too  humble  to  expect  redress,  and  whose  distresses  are 
too  great  even  for  pity.  Their  wretchedness  excites 
rather  horror  than  compassion.  Some  are  without  the 
covering  even  of  rags,  and  others  emaciated  with 
disease.  The  world  has  disclaimed  them  ;  society  turns 
its  back  upon  their  distress,  and  has  given  them  up  to 
nakedness  and  hunger.  #         *         *         *         # 

Poor  houseless  creatures !  the  world  will  give  you 
reproaches,  but  will  not  give  you  relief.  The  slightest 
misfortunes  of  the  great,  the  most  imaginary  uneasi- 
ness of  the  rich,  are  aggravated  with  all  the  power  of 
eloquence,  and  are  held  up  to  engage  our  attention  and 
sympathetic  sorrow.  The  poor  weep  unheeded,  perse- 
cuted by  every  species  of  petty  tyranny,  and  every 
law  which  gives  others  a  security  becomes  an  enemy 
to  them.'" 

This  generosity  of  temper,  united  with  keen  observa- 
tion, enabled  Goldsmith  to  pierce  readily  through  the 
disguises  of  selfishness ;  so  that,  with  his  comic  saga- 
city, and  his  genial  perception  of  the  ludicrous,  no 
writer  can  give  more  amusing  pictures,  than  he  does, 
of  sordid  follies.  Even  in  his  very  youth,  we  have  the 
narrative   of   an   adventure,   which   promises   all    the 


OLIVER    GOLDSMITH.  227 

thoughtful  drollery  that  he  afterwards  exhibited.  He 
had  gone  in  a  freak  to  Cork,  mounted  on  a  noble  horse, 
and  with  thirty  pounds  in  his  pocket.  It  was  not  long, 
ere  he  was  returning,  with  merely  five  shillings,  and 
mounted  on  an  animal  wliich  he  called  Fiddle-back. 
He  was,  however,  blithe  and  careless,  for  near  to  the 
city,  there  was  a  college  friend,  who  had  often  pressed 
him  to  a  visit.  "  We  shall  enjoy,"  he  would  say,  "  both 
the  city  and  the  country  ;  and  you  shall  command  my 
stable  and  my  purse." 

Going  towards  his  friend's  house,  he  divided  hi^  five 
shillings  with  a  destitute  woman,  and  on  his  arrival, 
he  found  his  friend  an  invalid ;  but  so  cordial  was  his 
reception,  that  remorse  struck  him  for  not  having  given 
the  whole  five  shillings  to  his  needy  sister.  He  stated 
his  case,  and  opened  his  heart  to  his  friend.  His 
friend  walked  to  and  fro,  rubbed  his  hands,  and  Gold- 
smith attributed  this  to  the  force  of  his  compassion, 
which  required  motion,  and  to  the  delicacy  of  his  sen- 
timents, which  commanded  silence.  The  hour  was 
growing  late,  and  Goldsmith's  appetite  had  been  long 
at  craving  point.  "At  length  an  old  woman  came  into 
the  room  with  two  plates,  one  spoon,  and  a  dirty  cloth, 
which  she  laid  upon  the  table.  This  appearance," 
says  Goldsmith,  "  without  increasing  my  spirits,  did  not 
diminish  my  appetite.     My  protectress  soon  returned 


228  LECTURES  AND  ESSAYS. 

with  one  bowl  of  sago,  a  small  porringer  of  sour  milk, 
a  loaf  of  stale  brown  bread,  and  the  heel  of  an  old 
cheese.  My  friend,"  continues  the  poet,  "apologized, 
that  his  illness  obliged  him  to  live  on  slops,  and  that 
better  fare  was  not  in  the  house  ;  observing,  at  the  same 
time,  that  a  milk  diet  was  certainly  the  most  healthful. 
At  eight  o'clock  he  again  recommended  a  regular  life, 
declaring  that,  for  his  part,  he  would  lie  down  with  the 
lamb,  and  rise  with  the  lark.  My  hunger  was  at  this 
time  so  exceedingly  sharp,  that  I  wished  for  another 
slice  of  the  loaf,  but  was  obliged  to  go  to  bed  without 
even  that  refreshment." 

Next  morning  Goldsmith  spoke  of  his  departure. 
"  To  be  sure,"  said  this  munificent  friend,  "  the  longer 
you  stay  away  from  your  mother,  the  more  you  will 
grieve  her,  and  your  other  relatives  ;  and  possibly  they 
are  already  afflicted  at  hearing  of  this  foolish  expe- 
dition you  have  made."  Goldsmith,  then  reminding 
him  of  former  good  turns,  tried  to  borrow  a  guinea 
from  him.  "  Why  look  you,  Mr.  Goldsmith,"  said 
Solomon  the  younger,  "  I  have  paid  you  all  you  ever 
lent  me,  and  this  sickness  of  mine  has  left  me  bare  of 
cash.  But,  I  have  bethought  myself  of  a  conveyance 
for  you.  Sell  your  horse,  and  I  will  furnish  you  with 
a  much  better  one  to  ride  on."  I  readily,  said  Gold- 
smith, grasped  at  this  proposal,  and  begged  to  see  the 


OLIVER    GOLDSMITH.  229 

nag;  on  which  he  led  me  to  his  bed-chamber,  and 
from  under  the  bed  pulled  out  a  stout  oak  stick. 
"  Here,"  said  he,  "  take  this  in  your  hand,  and  it  will 
carry  you  to  your  mother's  with  more  safety  than  such 
a  horse  as  you  ride."  Goldsmith  was  about  to  lay  it 
on  his  back,  but  a  casual  visitor  coming  in,  his  gen- 
erous friend  introduced  him  with  eulogium  and  with 
enthusiasm.  Both  of  them  had  an  invitation  to  din- 
ner ;  for  which  Goldsmith  was  quite  prepared ;  and  it 
seemed  not  less  acceptable  to  the  amiable  invalid.  At 
the  close  of  the  evening,  the  entertainer  offered  Gold- 
smith a  bed,  who  then  told  his  former  host  to  go  home 
and  take  care  of  his  excellent  horse,  but  that  he  would 
never  enter  his  house  again. 

The  objections  against  Goldsmith's  benevolence  of 
character,  drawn  from  Boswell,  are  easily  answered. 
Boswell  did  not  like  Goldsmith.  He  did  not,  and 
could  not,  do  him  justice.  The  position  of  Goldsmith 
near  Johnson,  was  galling  to  Boswell.  He  was  humil- 
iated when  Goldsmith  was  present ;  for,  familiar  as 
Boswell  was  with  the  great  moralist,  his  relation  to  him 
was  not  like  that  of  the  poet,  an  equal  and  a  brother. 
The  conviction  of  such  inferiority  was  intolerable  to 
a  man  of  Boswell's  temper ;  and  the  sternness  with 
which  Johnson  put  to  silence  every  effort  of  his  to 
depreciate  Goldsmith,  so  sharpened  his  asperity,  that 


230 


LECTURES    AND    ESSAYS. 


occasionally  it  seems  half  malignant.  Whatever  foibles 
belonged  to  Oliver  Goldsmith,  no  one  could  be  igno- 
rant that  the  author  of  "  The  Traveller  "  was  a  man 
of  genius ;  and  the  very  dignity  in  which  Johnson  held 
the  profession  of  letters,  would  never  permit  him,  even 
if  affection  did  not  interfere,  to  treat  Goldsmith  with 
irreverence.  If  for  a  moment,  in  his  turbulent  dogma- 
tism, he  forgot  the  respect  which  was  a  brother's  due, 
an  immediate  and  complete  apology  expressed  his 
contrition,  and  changed  him  from  the  superior  to  the 
suppliant. 

It  was  a  hard  lot  to  Bos  well,  that,  notwithstand- 
ing all  his  assiduity,  Goldsmith  maintained  a  com- 
munion with  Johnson,  to  which  he  could  never  dare. 
Bos  well's  situation  was  that  of  a  petted  favorite,  a 
pleasant  amanuensis,  a  lackey  to  the  mind ;  but  the 
place  of  Goldsmith  was  that  of  prince  with  prince. 
Goldsmith  took  little  notice  of  Boswell,  not  from  any 
special  feeling,  I  apprehend,  but  because  there  was 
nothing  in  him  that  struck  his  fancy  ;  and  Boswell, 
who,  like  all  favorites,  was  insolent,  was  mortally 
chagrined,  that  one  whom  he  would  fain  consider 
beneath  him,  should  so  quietly  but  so  effectually  show 
him  that  he  was  merely  a  subordinate.  The  impres- 
sion of  Goldsmith  which  Boswell's  remarks  tend  to 
leave,  is,  that  he  had   not  only  a  vanity  which  was 


OLIVER    GOLDSMITH.  231 

disgusting,  but  an  envy  which  was  detestable.  But 
Prior,  who  has  sifted  all  the  facts,  exposes  successfully 
the  absurdity  of  the  charges.  Boswell,  himself,  was  a 
man  both  vain  and  envious;  and  such  a  man  is  always 
the  most  likely  to  charge  vanity  and  envy  on  another. 
Goldsmith  unquestionably  had  vanity,  a  vanity  which, 
added  to  a  grotesque  appearance  and  ungainly  man- 
ners, became  a  ludicrous  oddity,  and,  as  in  the  case  of 
every  kind-hearted  person  of  confiding  simplicity  and 
open  speech,  he  was  at  the  mercy  of  his  critics.  He 
had  all  the  youthfulness  of  genius.  Necessity  com- 
pelled him  to  severe  exertion.  In  the  hours  of  relaxa- 
tion he  gambolled  as  a  boy,  and  capered  in  eyery  whim 
which  his  guileless  and  unsuspicious  temper  prompted. 
Much  he  said  and  did  in  sheer  sportiveness,  which 
Boswell  has  set  down  seriously,  if  not  in  malice  ;  and 
much,  therefore,  which  Boswell  has  written  of  Gold- 
smith, is  worthy  of  as  profound  attention  as  the  candid 
commentaries  of  Mrs.  Trollope  on  domestic  manners 
in  America. 

Goldsmith  had  vanity  that  was  undisguised,  but  it 
had  the  association  of  goodness  to  save  it  from  offend- 
ing, and  of  genius  to  shield  it  from  derision.  Boswell, 
who  ridicules  the  vanity  of  Goldsmith,  had  also  a 
vanity  of  his  own,  but,  sooth  to  say,  it  was  of  a  very 
odd  kind  ;  it  was  the  vanity  of  servitude,  the  vanity  of 


232  LECTURES  AND  ESSAYS. 

voluntary  abasement,  the  vanity  that  seemed  paradox- 
ically to  combine  the  mean  and  the  heroic ;  a  mean- 
ness that  first  submitted  to  abuse,  and  a  heroism  that 
afterwards  recorded  it ;  a  vanity,  which  had  strong 
resemblance  to  that  ascribed  by  Dean  Swift  to  "John," 
in  "  The  Tale  of  the  Tub  ; "  the  vanity,  allow  me  to 
speak  it  in  vernacular  Saxon,  the  vanity  of  being 
kicked.  I  do  not,  however,  deny  that  Boswell  has  left 
us  a  most  fascinating  book,  a  book  which  he  could  not 
perhaps  have  written,  had  his  mind  been  of  an  order 
more  aspiring  and  more  independent. 

I  have  confined  my  remarks  chiefly  to  a  distinctive 
quality  in  the  character  of  Goldsmith,  universally  con- 
ceded ;  but  his  whole  worth  was  by  no  means  confined 
to  this.  No  gross  vices  are  recorded  against  him  ;  his 
general  habits  appear  to  have  been  comparatively  un- 
stained ;  his  general  tastes  were  simple  ;  he  was  tem- 
perate almost  to  abstinence  ;  and  excess  he  regarded 
with  abhorrence.  To  speak  thus  is  to  speak  negatively, 
but  these  negatives,  connected  with  Goldsmith's  position 
and  his  times,  have  a  value  that  is  positive.  But  one 
virtue  eminently  positive,  belongs  to  Goldsmith,  and  that 
is,  his  exceeding  literary  purity ;  the  sacred  indepen- 
dence with  which  he  used  his  talents,  and  the  sacred 
purposes  to  which  he  applied  them.  Follies  were  his, 
which  gathered  afflictions  about  his  lot,  which  not  all 


OLIVER   GOLDSMITH.  233 

his  innocent  hilarity  could  throw  off.  Carelessness 
brought  misfortunes  upon  him,  which  broke  at  last  his 
elastic  capacity  of  endurance  ;  but  no  destitution  was 
ever  a  temptation  to  his  literary  conscience,  and  no 
pressure  ever  bent  its  rectitude.  From  the  beginning, 
Goldsmith  eschewed  patrons  ;  he  acted,  from  the  first, 
on  the  manly  resolution  of  seeking  support  in  the  honest 
exertion  of  his  own  powers.  The  Earl  of  Northumber- 
land, going  as  Lord  Lieutenant  to  Ireland,  offered  him 
assistance  ;  Goldsmith  declined  for  himself,  but  request- 
ed protection  for  his  brother,  a  worthy  pastor  and  a 
worthy  man.  Sir  John  Hawkins  calls  him  a  fool ;  but 
his  own  words  show  he  was  as  wise  as  he  was  consci- 
entious :  "  I  have,"  said  he,  "  no  dependence  on  the 
promises  of  the  great  men.  I  look  to  the  booksellers  foy 
support ;  they  are  my  best  friends." 

It  is  true,  that  Goldsmith  could  not  always  have 
an  end  equal  to  his  genius  ;  but  he  never  perjured 
his  convictions,  nor  bartered  his  soul.  It  is  true,  that 
his  main  object  was  often  merely  to  do  a  certain  quan- 
tity of  work,  and  receive  a  certain  sum  of  wages, 
and  of  this  he  sometimes  complains  with  a  sort 
of  melancholy  pleasantry.  He  says,  in  reference 
to  his  History  of  England,  "  I  have  been  a  good 
deal  abused  lately  in  the  newspapers  for  betraying  the 
liberty  of  the  people.     God  knows,  I  had  no  thought 


234  LECTURES   AND    ESSAYS 

for  or  against  liberty  in  my  head  ;  my  whole  aim 
being  to  make  a  book  of  a  decent  size,  that,  as  Squire 
Richard  says,  would  do  no  harm  to  nobody."  But 
though  Goldsmith  had  often  to  think  more  of  sustenance 
than  fame,  he  merely  wrote  rapidly,  he  did  not  write 
falsely.  Living  in  an  age,  when  a  name  sold  a  book, 
and  when  patrons  made  a  name,  and  when  dedications 
earned  patrons.  Goldsmith  passed  over  titles  and  grati- 
fied his  affections :  the  first  of  his  poems  he  inscribed 
to  an  indigent  brother,  and  the  others  he  inscribed  to 
his  immediate  friends. 

He  was  ever  perplexed  with  debts  and  surrounded 
with  difficulties :  his  heart  always  craving  for  money 
to  give,  and  his  supply  always  far  behind  his  crav- 
ing, yet  he  could  reject  propositions  which  men, 
who  have  secured  a  reputation  for  more  austere 
virtue  than  Goldsmith,  would  have  found  elegant  ex- 
cuses for  accepting.  The  British  Cabinet,  by  a  con- 
fidential agent,  intimated  a  munificent  remuneration 
for  his  pen.  The  poet  occupied  sordid  chambers,  and 
labored  like  a  slave  ;  but  here  was  his  answer :  "  I  can 
earn  as  much  as  will  supply  my  wants  without  writing 
for  any  party ;  the  assistance,  therefore,  which  you 
offer  is  unnecessary  to  me." 

Can  you  think  of  a  much  stronger  temptation  among 
earthly  struggles,   than  the   offer   of  a   rich   govern- 


OLIVER   GOLDSMITH.  235 

ment  to  a  poor  writer  ?  Judge  Goldsmith,  then, 
by  the  severity  of  his  trial,  and  give  him  the  credit 
of  his  victory.  But  he  was  honest  with  the  public 
as  he  was  with  patrons.  Needy  though  he  was,  he 
sought  the  suffrage  of  men  only  by  means  which 
tended  to  make  them  wiser,  and  to  make  them  better ; 
and  of  those  compositions  which  multitudes  seek,  as 
much  as  they  should  shun  them,  and  which  it  is  as 
easy  as  it  is  dishonorable  to  produce,  not  one  can 
be  laid  to  the  charge  of  Goldsmith.  The  spirit  of  his 
works  is  as  chaste,  as  their  style  is  classical ;  and 
to  him  belongs  the  glory,  of  having  purified  ex- 
pression, when  the  phraseology  even  of  women  was 
coarse  ;  and  of  having  consecrated  the  novel  to  virtue, 
when  the  pen  of  fiction  was  dipped  in  the  offscourings 
of  passion. 

I  am  compelled  to  pass  from  a  brief  review  of 
Goldsmith's  character,  to  an  equally  brief  review  of 
his  writings.  The  writings  of  Goldsmith,  if  they  had 
no  other  excellence,  would  be  remarkable  for  their 
felicitous  versatility.  The  author  is  successively  pre- 
sented to  us  as  historian,  essayist,  dramatist,  poet, 
and  novelist.  The  few  words  I  can  say  of  Gold- 
smith, as  a  writer,  will  take  the  order  which  I  have 
now  indicated. 

As  a  historian.  Goldsmith  accomplishes  all  at  which 


236  LECTURES  AND  ESSAYS. 

he  aims.  He  does  not  promise  much,  but  he  does 
more  than  he  promises.  He  takes,  it  is  true,  facts 
which  had  been  already  collected,  but  he  shapes  them 
with  an  art  that  is  all  his  own.  He  has  the  rare  facuhy 
of  being  brief  without  being  dry  ;  of  being  at  once  per- 
spicuous and  compressed,  and  of  giving  to  the  merest 
abridgment  the  interest  of  dramatic  illusion.  Doctor 
Johnson  set  a  high  value  on  Goldsmith,  if  not  as  a 
historian,  at  least  as  a  narrator ;  and  Dr.  Johnson  was 
a  man,  whose  critical  austerity  even  friendship  rarely 
softened.  Dr.  Johnson  went  so  far,  as  to  place  Gold- 
smith above  Robertson.  When  we  have  taken  into 
consideration  Johnson's  prejudices  against  Robertson 
for  being  a  Scotchman  and  a  Presbyterian,  a  worth  will 
still  remain  in  the  opinion,  which  we  must  allow  to 
Goldsmith.  Robertson,  Johnson  represents  as  crushed 
under  his  own  weight ;  or  as  like  a  man  that  packs 
gold  in  wool,  the  wool  taking  more  room  than  the  gold. 
Goldsmith,  he  says,  puts  into  his  book  as  much  as  his 
book  will  hold.  No  man,  he  asserts,  will  read  Robert- 
son's cumbrous  detail  a  second  time ;  but  Goldsmith's 
plain  narrative  will  please  again  and  again.  Johnson 
remarked  of  Goldsmith  in  one  of  his  conversations,  — 
"  He  is  now  writing  a  Natural  History,  and  he  will 
make  it  as  entertaining  as  a  Persian  Tale."  With  these 
histories  of  Goldsmith  we  cannot  dispense  ;  a  beautiful 


OLIVER    GOLDSMITH.  237 

mixture  of  the  agreeable  and  the  useful,  they  are 
dear  to  us  with  all  their  imperfections  ;  they  are 
lessons  for  our  childhood,  and  relaxation  for  our  ma- 
turity. They  have  a  permanent  existence  in  our  lite- 
rature, and  they  deserve  it.  They  deserve  it,  not 
alone  for  their  charms  of  expression,  but  for  qualities 
of  higher  worth ;  for  purity  of  sentiment,  for  honesty 
of  purpose,  for  benevolence  of  heart,  for  the  wisdom 
of  a  liberal  spirit,  and  the  moderation  of  a  humane 
temper. 

As  an  essayist,  Goldsmith  ranks  with  the  highest  in 
our  language.  With  a  keen  observation  of  life  and 
manners,  he  unites  delightful  ease ;  and  he  softens 
caustic  sarcasm  with  a  pleasant  humor.  Amidst  a 
varied  experience,  he  preserved  a  simple  heart;  and 
he  drew  human  nature  as  he  found  it,  with  the  freedom 
of  a  satirist,  but  never  with  the  coldness  of  a  cynic. 
The  essays  of  Goldsmith  are  wise  as  well  as  amusing, 
and  display  as  much  sagacity  as  variety.  They  abound 
in  impressive  moral  teachings,  in  apt  examples,  and 
in  beautiful  illustrations.  Serious,  when  soberness  is 
wisdom,  and  gay  when  laughter  is  not  folly;  they 
can  prompt  the  smile,  they  can  also  start  the  tear; 
inspiration  comes  with  the  occasion,  in  unexpected 
eloquence,  and  in  unbidden  pathos. 

To  speak  of  Goldsmith  as  an  essayist,  is  to  suggest  a 


238  LECTURES  AND  ESSAYS. 

comparison  of  his  merits  with  writers  whose  excellence 
in  didactic  and  humorous  composition  forms  an  elevated 
and  a  severe  standard.  But  Goldsmith  will  bear  the 
comparison.  He  has  not,  indeed,  the  undefinable  grace 
of  Addison ;  nor  the  solemn  wisdom  of  Johnson.  But 
neither  has  Addison  his  freshness,  his  hearty  and 
broad  ridicule,  the  cheerful  comicry  which  will  not  be 
satisfied  with  an  elegant  simper,  but  must  have  the 
loud  and  open  laugh.  Johnson  on  the  solemn  themes 
of  humanity  maintains  a  melancholy  grandeur  ;  he  sits 
in  despondency  and  solitude  ;  his  general  reflections  on 
life  and  destiny  are  the  deep  sighings  of  a  heart  that 
seeks  for  hope,  but  has  not  found  it ;  the  pan  tings 
of  a  troubled  soul  alarmed  by  superstition,  but  wanting 
faith  ;  they  are  lofty,  but  cheerless  ;  they  are  eloquent, 
but  monotonous ;  they  have  music,  but  it  is  the  music 
of  lamentation ;  they  are  the  modulations  of  a  dirge. 
Johnson  knew  well  the  dark  abstractions  which  belong 
to  our  nature  ;  but  he  did  not  understand  the  details  of 
common  existence  as  Goldsmith  did.  He  could  moral- 
ize, but  he  could  not  paint ;  he  has  splendid  passages, 
but  no  pictures  ;  he  could  philosophize,  but  he  could 
not  create.  He  has,  therefore,  left  us  no  special  indi- 
vidualities, to  which  our  fancies  can  give  local  habita- 
tions ;  he  has  made  no  addition  to  that  world  of  beings, 
whose  population  and  whose  history  belong  to  imagina- 


OLIVER    GOLDSMITH. 

tion  ;  he  has  given  it  no  new  inhabitant,  none  to  walk 
beside  the  "  Vicar  of  Wakefield,"  or  "  Sir  Roger  de 
Coverly."  As  for  "  Rasselas,"  he  is  a  declamatory 
shadow  ;  and  cloud-formed  as  he  is,  the  vapor  does  not 
long  preserve  a  shape ;  for  the  outlines  soon  melt  into 
the  illimitable  expanse  of  gloomy  meditation. 

After  reading  a  paper  in  the  "  Rambler,"  or  a  chap- 
ter in  "  Rasselas,"  I  take  up  Goldsmith's  "  Citizen  of 
the  World "  with  a  new  relish  ;  and  when  I  have 
perused  some  pages,  I  feel  resuscitated  from  depression 
by  its  satire,  its  shrewdness,  its  pleasantry,  and  good 
sense.  What  a  pungent  impersonation  of  poverty  and 
folly  is  Beau  Tibbs,  such  an  admirable  combination 
of  the  dandy  and  the  loafer.  Johnson  could  have  no 
more  conceived  of  Beau  Tibbs,  than  he  could  have 
invented  a  dialect  for  little  fishes.  Goldsmith  at  one 
time  told  the  critic,  that  if  he  gave  little  fishes  lan- 
guage, that  he  would  make  little  fishes  speak  like 
whales.  So  he  would  make  Beau  Tibbs  speak  like 
"The  Last  Man."  But  Goldsmith  understood  what 
little  fishes  should  say,  if  they  had  the  gift  of  speech ; 
it  is  no  wonder,  that  he  knew  the  proper  phraseology 
of  Beau  Tibbs,  who  had  that  gift  with  a  most  miracu- 
lous fluency. 

Beau  Tibbs  is  a  perfect  character  of  the  Jeremy 
Diddler  school.     Dressed  in  the  finery  of  rag-fair,  he 


240       -    LECTURES  AND  ESSAYS. 

talks  of  the  balls  and  assemblies  he  attends.  He 
has  invitations  to  noblemen's  feasts  for  a  month  to 
Gome  ;  yet  he  jumps  at  an  offer  to  share  a  mug  of 
porter  ;  he  bets  a  thousand  guineas,  and  in  the  same 
breath,  it  is  "  Dear  Drybone,  lend  me  half-a-crovvn  for 
a  minute  or  two."  Once  in  company  with  his  Chinese 
friend,  the  Citizen  of  the  World,  they  are  asked  twenty 
pounds  for  a  seat  to  see  the  coronation.  The  Chinese 
sage  inquires,  whether  a  coronation  will  clothe,  or  feed, 
or  fatten  him.  "  Sir,"  replied  the  man,  "  you  seem 
to  be  under  a  mistake  ;  all  you  can  bring  away  is 
the  pleasure  of  having  it  to  say,  that  you  saw  the 
coronation."  "  Blast  me,"  cries  Tibbs,  "  if  that  be 
all,  there  is  no  need  of  paying  for  that,  since  I  am 
resolved  to  have  that  pleasure,  whether  I  am  there  or 
not." 

Beau  Tibbs,  then,  is  a  character,  and  so  is  the 
"  Man  in  Black."  Where  will  you  find  more  origi- 
nality ?  A  most  delightful  compound  is  the  "  Man 
in  Black ; "  a  rarity  not  to  be  met  with  often ;  a 
true  oddity,  with  the  tongue  of  Timon,  and  the 
heart  of  Uncle  Toby.  He  proclaims  war  against 
pauperism,  yet  he  cannot  say  "  no  "  to  a  beg- 
gar. He  ridicules  generosity,  yet  would  he  share 
with  the  poor  whatever  he  possessed.  He  glories 
in   having    become   a   niggard,    as   he   wishes   to   be 


OLIVER   GOLDSMITH.  241 

thought,  and  thus  describes  his  conversion.  Having 
told  how  he  quitted  the  folly  of  liberality,  "  I  now," 
said  he,  "  pursued  a  course  of  uninterrupted  frugality, 
seldom  wanted  a  dinner,  and  was  consequently  invited  to 
twenty.  I  soon  began  to  get  the  character  of  a  saving 
hunks,  that  had  money,  and  insensibly  I  grew  into 
esteem.  Neighbors  have  asked  my  advice  in  the  dis- 
posal of  their  daughters,  and  I  have  always  taken  care 
not  to  give  any.  I  have  contracted  a  friendship  with 
an  alderman  only  by  observing,  that  if  we  take  a 
farthing  from  a  thousand  pounds,  it  will  be  a  thousand 
pounds  no  longer.  I  have  been  invited  to  a  pawn- 
broker's table  by  pretending  to  hate  gravy,  and  am 
^tiow  actually  on  a  treaty  of  marriage  with  a  rich  widow, 
for  only  having  observed  that  bread  was  rising.  If  ever 
I  am  asked  a  question,  whether  I  know  it  or  not,  in- 
stead of  answering  it,  I  only  smile,  and  look  wise.  If 
a  charity  is  proposed,  I  go  about  with  the  hat,  but  put 
nothing  in  myself.  If  a  wretch  solicits  my  pity,  I 
observe  that  the  world  is  filled  with  impostors,  and  take 
a  certain  method  of  not  being  deceived  by  never 
relieving." 

As  a  dramatist.  Goldsmith  is  amusing ;  and  if  to 
excite  laughter  be,  as  Johnson  asserts  it  is,  the  chief 
end  of  comedy.  Goldsmith  attains  it.  His  plots,  how- 
ever, are  extravagant,  and  his  personages  are  oddities 

VOL.   I.  16 


242  LECTURES  AND  ESSAYS. 

rather  than  characters.  Goldsmith's  plays  want  the 
contrivance  which  belongs  to  highest  art  ;  but  they 
have  all  those  ingenious  accidents  which  are  suitable 
for  stage  effect.  They  are,  in  fact,  deficient  in  that 
insight,  which  pertains  only  to  great  dramatic  genius. 
"  The  Good-natured  Man"  is  an  agreeable  satire  on  the 
follies  of  benevolence,  and  "  She  Stoops  to  Conquer," 
a  laughable  burlesque  on  a  very  improbable  mistake. 
Croaker,  in  the  one,  is  an  effective  caricature  on  men 
of  groaning  and  long  faces ;  and  Tony  Lumpkin,  in 
the  other,  is  a  broad,  grinning  stereotype  of  a  foolish 
mother's  fool.  These  two  comedies  comprise  all  Gold- 
smith's theatrical  writings.  Both  of  them  abound  in 
drollery  and  strong  touches  of  nature  ;  but  they  do  not 
give  the  author  an  exalted  position  among  dramatists, 
and  they  do  not  promise  that  he  could  have  reached  it. 
In  referring  to  Goldsmith  as  a  poet,  I  have  no  inten- 
tion to  commit  the  impertinence  of  formal  criticism.  I 
have  an  easy  and  a  pleasant  work.  I  have  nothing  to 
defend,  and  nothing  to  refute.  I  have  only  to  call  up 
simple  recollections,  which  are  endeared  to  us  all  by  the 
unanimous  experience  of  a  common  pleasure.  Who 
has  not  read  "  The  Traveller,"  and  "  The  Deserted 
Village,"  and  "  The  Hermit,"  and  "Retaliation  .?"  And 
who  that  has  read  them  will  forget,  or  not  recall  them, 
as  among  the  sweetest  melodies  which    his  thoughts 


OLIVER   GOLDSMITH.  248 

preserve  ?  "  The  Traveller  "  has  the  most  ambitious 
aim  of  Goldsmith's  poetical  compositions.  The  author, 
placed  on  a  height  of  the  Alps,  muses  and  moralizes 
on  the  countries  around  him.  His  object,  it  appears, 
is  to  show  the  equality  of  happiness,  which  consists 
with  diversities  of  circumstances  and  situations.  The 
poem  is,  therefore,  mainly  didactic.  Description  and 
reflection  are  subservient  to  an  ethical  purpose,  and 
this  purpose  is  never  left  out  of  sight.  The  descriptive 
passages  are  all  vivid,  but  some  of  them  are  imperfect. 
Italy,  for  instance,  in  its  pronjinent  aspects,  is  boldly 
sketched.  We  are  transported  to  the  midst  of  its 
mountains,  woods,  and  temples  ;  we  are  under  its 
sunny  skies,  we  are  embosomed  in  its  fruits  and 
flowers,  we  breathe  its  fragrant  air,  and  we  are 
charmed  by  its  matchless  landscapes  ;  but  we  miss 
the  influence  of  its  arts,  and  the  solemn  impression  of 
its  former  grandeur.  We  are  made  to  survey  a  nation 
in  degeneracy  and  decay ;  but  we  are  not  relieved  by 
the  glow  of  Raffael,  or  excited  by  the  might  of  the 
Colliseum. 

The  fact  is,  that  Goldsmith,  with  a  pure  taste 
and  a  sweet  fancy,  was  not  a  man  of  varied  cul- 
ture, or  of  wide  reflection.  The  general  equality,  the 
honest  toil,  the  frugal  habits,  the  domestic  virtue,  and 
the  heroic   patriotism   of  the   Swiss,  are   eloquently 


244  LECTITRES   AND    ESSAYS. 

commended.  But  of  all  countries  on  the  European 
continent,  France  was  the  one  of  Goldsmith's  affec- 
tions, and  his  experience  in  that  gay  land  is  detailed 
with  the  partiality  of  a  lover.  The  character  of  the 
Hollanders  has  the  most  severity ;  that  of  the  English 
the  most  power.  Whether  Goldsmith's  description  of 
the  English  be  considered  true  or  false,  none  can  deny 
the  force  of  its  expression : 

"  Stern  o'er  each  bosom,  reason  holds  her  state, 
With  daring  aims  irregularly  great ; 
Pride  in  their  port,  defiance  in  their  eye, 
I  see  the  lords  of  human  kind  pass  by ; 
Intent  on  high  designs,  a  thoughtful  band, 
By  forms  unfashioned,  fresh  from  nature's  hand ; 
Fierce  in  their  native  hardihood  of  soul. 
True  to  imagined  right,  above  control ; 
While  e'en  the  peasant  boasts  these  rights  to  scan, 
And  learns  to  venerate  himself  as  man." 

"  The  Deserted  Village"  belongs  to  the  heart,  and 
the  heart  guards  it  from  the  profanation  of  analysis.  It 
is  a  poem  upon  which  the  heart  has  long  decided.  Each 
of  us  might  say,  with  the  author  of  that  Sweet  Auburn 
which  he  has  immortalized  : 

"  How  often  have  I  lohered  o'er  thy  green, 
Where  humble  happiness  endeared  each  scene  ! 


.     OLIVER    GOLDSMITH.  245 

How  often  have  I  paused  on  every  charm, 

The  sheltered  cot,  the  cultivated  farm, 

The  never  failing  brook,  the  busy  mill, 

The  silent  church,  that  topped  the  neighboring  hill. 

The  hawthorn  bush,  with  seats  beneath  the  shade 

For  talking  age,  and  whispering  lovers  made." 

The  characters  of  this  poem  are  our  household 
friends,  angels  whom  we  love  to  entertain,  yet  not  as 
strangers,  nor  unawares.  Their  names  were  on  our 
lips  at  school,  and  they  will  be  pleasant  to  the  grave. 
Who  of  us  will  not  ever  reverence  the  Village  Pastor .? 
Who  of  us  have  not  been  guests  in  his  chimney  corner, 
and  listened  with  him  to  the  aged  beggar  and  the  broken 
soldier  ? 

"  The  broken  soldier  kindly  bade  to  stay, 
Sat  by  the  fire,  and  talked  the  night  away  ; 
Wept  o'er  his  wounds,  and  tales  of  sorrow  done. 

Shouldered  his  crutch,  and  showed  how  fields  were  won." 

♦ 

We  have  all,  too,  followed  this  good  man  to  the 
House  of  Prayer,  where  he  shone  with  unaffected  grace, 
where  the  young  loved  him,  and  where  the  old  admired ; 
we  have  followed  him  to  the  house  of  mourning,  where 
his  steps  were  soft  as  mercy,  and  where  his  tones  were 
filled  with  heaven : 


246  LECTURES  AND  ESSAYS. 

**  Beside  the  bed,  where  parting  life  was  laid, 
And  sorrow,  guilt,  and  pain  by  turns  dismayed, 
The  reverend  champion  stood  ;  at  his  control 
Despair  and  anguish  fled  the  struggling  soul ; 
Comfort  came  down,  the  trembling  wretch  to  raise, 
And  his  last  faltering  accents  whispered  praise." 

Nor  is  the  good  old  Schoolmaster  less  a  favorite  with 
us ;  for 

"  He  was  kind,  or  if  severe  in  aught, 
The  love  he  bore  to  learning  was  in  fault ; 
The  village  wondered  all,  how  much  he  knew, 
'T  was  certain  he  could  write,  and  cipher  too  ; 
Lands  he  could  measure,  terms  and  tides  presage, 
And  e'en  the  story  ran  that  he  could  guage. 
In  arguing,  too,  the  parson  owned  his  skill. 
For  e'en  though  vanquished,  he  could  argue  still : 
While  words  of  learned  length  and  thundering  sound 
Amazed  the  gazing  rustics  ranged  around  ; 
And  still  they  gazed,  and  still  the  wonder  grew 
That  one  small  head  could  carry  all  he  knew." 

Goldsmith  deserves  his  popularity,  for  he  loved  the 
people ;  it  was  mankind  he  respected,  and  not  office. 
In  many  ways  he  was  not  unlike  Burns,  but  most  like 
him  in  personal  independence  and  popular  sympathy. 
Burns,  with  all  his  impassioned  aspiration,  has  nothing 
finer  than  this : 


OLIVER    GOLDSMITH.  247 

"  Hard  fares  the  land  to  hastening  ills  a  prey, 
Where  wealth  accumulates,  and  men  decay  ; 
Princes  and  lords  may  flourish  or  may  fade, 
A  breath  can  make  them,  as  a  breath  has  made ; 
But  a  bold  peasantry  their  country's  pride, 
When  once  destroyed,  can  never  be  supplied." 

On  Goldsmith's  poetry  the  judgment  of  the  literary 
and  the  laity  seem  unanimous ;  both  equally  approve, 
and  this  is  a  rare  consent.  "  The  Traveller  "  and  "  The 
Deserted  Village  "  are  perfect  in  their  kind ;  and  of 
his  shorter  productions,  "  The  Hermit "  is  a  master- 
piece of  tenderness,  and  "  Retaliation "  a  masterpiece 
of  sagacity. 

Goldsmith  as  a  novelist  has  based  an  undying  reputa- 
tion upon  one  brief  tale.  Nor  is  this  tale,  critically  con- 
sidered, without  grave  defects.  Parts  of  the  plot  are 
improbable ;  some  of  the  incidents  are  even  out  of 
possibility,  and  much  in  each  of  the  characters  is  in- 
consistent. "  We  cannot,  for  instance,  conceive,"  Sir 
Walter  Scott  remarks,  "  how  Sir  William  Thornhill 
should  contrive  to  masquerade  under  the  name  of 
Burchell  among  his  own  tenantry,  and  upon  his  own 
estate  ;  and  it  is  absolutely  impossible,  to  see  how  his 
nephew,  the  son,  doubtless,  of  a  younger  brother  (since 
Sir  William  inherited  both  title  and  property)  should  be 
nearly  as  old  as  the  baronet  himself.    It  may  be  added, 


248  LECTURES  AND  ESSAYS. 

that  the  character  of  Burchell,  or  Sir  William  Thornhill, 
is  in  itself  extravagantly  unnatural.  A  man  of  his  be- 
nevolence would  never  have  so  long  left  his  nephew  in 
the  possession  of  wealth,  which  he  employed  in  the 
worst  of  purposes.  Far  less  would  he  have  permitted 
his  scheme  upon  Olivia  in  a  great  measure  to  succeed, 
and  that  upon  Sophia,  also,  to  approach  consummation  ; 
for,  in  the  first  instance,  he  does  not  interfere  at  all, 
and  in  the  second  his  intervention  is  accidental." 

This  is  a  criticism  from  the  highest  of  novelists, 
upon  one  who  was  the  kindest.  It  is  not,  however,  a 
criticism  advanced  with  the  technicalities  of  art ;  it  is 
one  which  simple  nature  indicates,  and  which,  if  simple 
readers  could  not  readily  discover,  they  will  readily 
admit.  In  what  then  consists  the  charm,  which  strik- 
ing blemishes  are  not  able  to  dissolve  ?  It  consists  in 
that  most  beautiful  creation  of  English  fiction,  "  The 
Primrose  Family."  In  this  fascinating  group,  there 
is  a  spell  which  rivets  our  attention,  and  fixes  our 
affections,  and  we  cannot  throw  it  off*.  We  are  bound 
to  the  Primroses  and  their  originality  of  innocence,. by 
the  purity  of  their  domestic  life,  and  by  the  strength  of 
their  domestic  love.  Each  of  the  Primroses  is  a  de- 
cided and  distinct  individual.  The  Vicar  has  become 
known  to  us  as  a  daily  neighbor ;  the  good  Vicar,  at 
once  so  heroic  and  so  childlike  ;  so  simple,  and  yet  so 


OLIVER   GOLDSMITH.  249 

wise  ;  so  strong  in  the  energy  of  the  true,  so  gentle 
in  the  meekness  of  the  holy.  Beside  him,  in  evil 
times  and  good,  we  have  his  loyal  dame,  who  thought 
people  ought  to  hold  up  their  heads ;  whose  cunning 
plots  were  open  to  all  eyes  but  her  own  ;  who  was 
proud  of  her  sagacity,  proud  of  her  station,  proud 
of  her  children,  but  prouder  than  all  of  her  husband. 
Then  we^  have  George,  the  sage-errant  of  the  family. 
We  have  the  girls,  "  a  glory  and  a  joy  "  within  their 
home,  each  different  in  her  loveliness ;  Olivia,  with 
such  gladness  in  her  laughter ;  Sophia,  with  such  sweet- 
ness in  her  smiles.  Moses,  too,  is  a  leading  personage  ; 
Moses,  half  philosopher,  and  half  a  fool,  who,  like  his 
father,  could  talk  of  the  ancients,  and  like  his  mother 
"knew  what  he  was  about."  Even  little  Dick  and 
Bill,  the  privileged  prattlers  of  the  circle,  have  their 
places  in  the  story,  and  the  story  needs  them.  And 
did  ever  another  story,  in  such  compass,  touch  so 
many  emotions,  and  touch  them  so  deeply?  We 
laugh  at  its  breadth  of  humor,  we  repose  over  its  quiet 
pictures,  and  in  a  moment  we  are  startled  into  weep- 
ing by  its  pathos.  When  the  Vicar  discovers  the  ab- 
sence of  his  Olivia,  his  beautiful  child,  and  his  beloved, 
the  spotless  dove  that  but  lately  nestled  in  his  bosom, 
who  is  not  stunned  at  his  madness,  and  exalted  as  he 
passes   from   madness  to  submission }      When,  from 


250  LECTURES  AND  ESSAYS. 

this,  we  trace  him  through  the  fire  that  leaves  him 
houseless,  to  the  prison  where  his  eldest  son  lies 
chained  for  death ;  where  his  family  gather  about  him 
in  mourning  and  in  want ;  how  sublime,  in  every  posi- 
tion, is  his  conduct,  and  how  cheering  are  his  words ! 
With  what  heavenly  mercy  does  he  seek  his  fallen 
daughter  ;  with  what  fatherly  pity  does  he  receive  and 
shield  her ! 

Not  tired  in  alleviating  the  affliction  which  has 
bruised  the  hopes  of  his  own  house,  he  bears  conso- 
lation to  the  wicked,  with  whom  his  own  blameless 
lot  is  cast ;  he  finds  a  brother  in  the  assassin's  cell,  and 
in  the  felon's  chains ;  for  he  finds  in  each  a  human 
being,  and  he  wins  him  to  repentance  by  the  eloquence 
which  evangelical  sympathy  alone  inspires,  and  which 
evangelical  sympathy  alone  can  speak.  His  family 
companions,  in  his  adversity,  are  transformed  to  his 
moral  grandeur ;  his  wife,  chastened  by  suffering,  lays 
aside  her  trifling,  and  shows  herself  a  true-hearted 
woman.  Even  the  rustic  Moses,  by  his  patient  toil, 
not  only  earns  the  means  of  support  for  his  imprisoned 
father,  but  for  himself  the  meed  of  imperishable  regard. 
The  humor  of  this  tale  is  as  delightful  to  cheer,  as 
its  wisdom  is  to  instruct  us.  Nor  does  the  wisdom  lose 
force,  but  gains  it  in  the  humor  by  which  it  is  relieved. 
The   good  Dr.  Primrose   seems   himself  aware,   that 


OLIVER    GOLDSMITH.  251 

people  must  smile  at  his  zeal  for  "monogamy." 
Whiston  had  engraven  on  his  wife's  tomb,  "  that  she 
was  the  only  wife  of  William  Whiston."  "  I  wrote," 
says  the  Vicar,  "  a  similar  epitaph  for  my  wife,  though 
still  living,  in  which  I  extolled  her  prudence,  economy, 
and  obedience,  until  death,  and  having  got  it  copied 
fair,  with  an  elegant  frame,  it  was  placed  over  the 
chimney-piece,  where  it  answered  several  useful  pur- 
poses. *  •  *  It  inspired  her  with  a  passsion  for 
fame,  and  constantly  put  her  in  mind  of  her  end." 
Cousins  to  the  fortieth  degree  claimed  kindred,  and 
had  their  claim  allowed.  Poor  guests,  well  treated, 
make  a  happy  company,  and  Dr.  Primrose,  was,  "  by 
nature,  an  admirer  of  happy  faces.  When  the  guest 
was  not  desirable  a  second  time,  the  doctor  says  that  he 
ever  took  care  to  lend  him  a  riding  coat,  or  a  pair  of 
boots,  or  sometimes  a  horse  of  small  value ;  "  and  I 
always,"  observes  the  good  Vicar,  "  had  the  satisfac- 
tion of  finding  that  he  never  came  back  to  return 
them."  Travellers,  too,  would  sometimes  step  in  to 
taste  Mrs.  Primrose's  gooseberry  wine ;  "  and  I  pro- 
fess," says  the  doctor,  "  on  the  veracity  of  a  historian, 
that  I  never  knew  one  of  them  find  fault  with  it."  The 
doctor  was  as  proud  of  his  theory,  as  his  spouse  was  of 
her  gooseberry  wine,  and  so  lost  a  horse  by  his  philo- 
sophical vanity. 


252  LECTURES  AND  ESSAYS. 

"  Are  you,  sir,"  inquired  Jenkins,  "  related  to  the 
great  Dr.  Primrose,  that  courageous  monogamist,  the 
bulwark  of  the  church  ?  " 

"  You  behold,  sir,  before  you,  that  Dr.  Primrose, 
whom  you  are  pleased  t6  call  great ;  you  see  here 
that  unfortunate  divine,  who  has  so  long,  and  it  would 
ill  become  me  to  say,  so  successfully,  struggled  against 
the  deuterogamy  of  the  age." 

"  Thou  glorious  pillar  of  unshaken  orthodoxy !  "  ex- 
claims Jenkins. 

Jenkins  accepts  the  offer  of  his  friendship  ;  with 
his  friendship  he  takes  his  horse,  in  return  giving  him 
a  false  note  for  payment.  The  wisdom  of  the  Vicar 
was  a  notable  climax  to  the  sagacity  of  the  son ;  and 
an  empty  check  on  farmer  Flamborough,  was  an  ap- 
propriate counterpart  from  the  same  hand  which  had 
furnished  the  gross  of  green  spectacles.  Moses  was 
the  oracle  of  his  mother.  Moses,  she  said,  always 
knew  what  he  was  about.  How  proudly  he  travelled 
up  to  the  door,  after  his  horse-dealing  speculation, 
with  his  deal  box  upon  his  shoulder ;  with  what  qui- 
etude of  success  he  received  the  salutations  of  his 
father. 

"  Well  Moses,  my  boy,  what  have  you  brought  us 
from  the  fair  ?  " 

"  Myself,"  cries  Moses,  with  a  sly  look. 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH.  35^ 

"  Ah,  Moses,"  cried  my  wife,  "  that  we  know,  but 
where  is  the  horse  ?  " 

"  I  have  sold  him,"  cried  Moses,  "  for  three  pounds, 
five  shillings,  and  two  pence." 

"  Well  done,  my  good  boy,"  returned  she,  "  I  knew 
you  would  touch  them  off.  Between  ourselves,  three 
pounds,  five  shillings,  and  two  pence,  is  no  bad  day's 
work.     Come,  let  us  have  it  then." 

"  I  have  brought  back  no  money,"  cried  Moses, 
again  ;  "  I  have  laid  it  all  out  in  a  bargain,  and  here  it 
is,"  pulling  out  a  bundle  from  his  breast ;  "  here  they 
are,  a  gross  of  green  spectacles,  with  silver  rims  and 
shagreen  cases." 

George  was  a  worthy  member  of  the  same  family, 
who  went  to  Holland  to  teach  English,  and  did  not 
reflect  until  he  landed,  that  it  was  necessary  to  know 
Dutch.  And  quite  in  keeping  with  all,  was  the  family 
picture,  which  was  first  ordered  to  be  of  a  certain  size, 
and  was  then  found  to  be  too  large  for  the  house.  The 
Flamboroughs  were  drawn,  seven  of  them  with  seven 
oranges,  "a  thing  quite  out  of  taste,  no  variety  in 
life,  no  composition  in  the  world."  We  desired,  says 
the  Vicar,  something  in  a  brighter  style,  and  then  comes 
the  detail. 

"  My  wife,"  the  doctor  observes,  "  desired  to  be 
represented  as  Venus,  and  the  painter  was  desired  not 


254'  LECTURES   AND    ESSAYS.     ' 

to  be  too  frugal  of  his  diamonds  in  her  stomacher  and 
hair.  Her  two  little  ones  were  to  be  Cupids  by  her 
side;  while  I,  in  my  gown  and  bands,  was  to  present 
her  with  my  book  on  the  Whistonian  Controversy. 
Olivia  would  be  drawn  as  an  Amazon  sitting  on  a  bank 
of  flowers,  dressed  in  a  green  Joseph,  richly  laced  with 
gold,  and  a  whip  in  her  hand.  Sophia  was  to  be  a 
shepherdess,  with  as  many  sheep  as  the  painter  would 
put  in  for  nothing ;  and  Moses  was  to  be  dressed  out 
with  a  hat  and  white  feather.  Our  taste  so  pleased  the 
squire,  that  he  insisted  on  being  put  in  as  one  of  the 
family,  in  the  character  of  Alexander  the  Great,  at 
Olivia's  feet." 

The  character  of  Goldsmith  is  not  of  the  most  exalted 
kind,  and  though  it  is  endeared  to  us  from  its  simplicity, 
it  does  not  command  our  highest  admiration.  It  wanted 
self-denial ;  it  therefore  wanted  the  regulated  foresight, 
the  austere  economy,  by  which  lofty  qualities  are  sus- 
tained and  exercised.  In  virtues  of  the  severe  cast, 
that  sacrifice  is  not  the  least,  which,  for  the  good  of 
mankind,  makes  resignation  of  popular  affections ;  and 
if  we  could  perceive  what  great  hearts  have  in  this 
way  endured,  instead  of  esteeming  them  stoics,  we 
would  revere  them  as  martyrs. 

Goldsmith  is  one  of  those  whom  we  cannot  help 
liking,  and  whom  we  cannot  criticise  ;  yet  he  is  one 


OLIVER   GOLDSMITH.  255 

that  should  be  praised  with  caution,  if  in  our  age 
there  was  much  danger  of  his  being  imitated.  We 
are  too  busy  for  meditative  vagrancy ;  we  are  too  prac- 
tical for  the  delusions  of  scholarship;  even  with  the 
felicitous  genius  of  Goldsmith,  the  literary  profession 
would  now  be  an  insecure  basis  for  subsistence,  and 
none  at  all  for  prodigality.  Extent  of  competition,  the 
rigor  of  criticism,  the  difficulty  of  acting  on  an  im- 
mensely multiplied  reading  public,  repress  the  efforts 
of  vanity ;  yet,  except  in  few  instances,  they  do  not 
compensate  the  efforts  of  power ;  the  vain  are  driven  to 
obscurity,  but  the  powerful  have  little  more  than  their 
fame.  And  though  we  possessed  the  abilities  of  Gold- 
smith, and  were  tempted  to  his  follies,  his  life  is  before 
us  for  a  memento,  and  his  experience  is  sufficient  for  a 
warning.  Yet  is  it  agreeable  to  lay  aside  our  prudence 
for  a  little,  and  enjoy  with  him,  in  fancy  at  least,  the 
advantage  of  the  hour ;  to  participate  in  his  thoughtless 
good  nature,  and  to  enter  into  his  careless  gaiety  ;  to 
sit  with  him  in  some  lonely  Swiss  glen  ;  or  to  listen  to 
his  flute  among  the  peasantry. of  France;  or  to  hear 
him  debate  logical  puzzles  in  monastic  Latin  ;  to  share 
the  pride  of  his  new  purple  coat,  which  Johnson  would 
not  praise,  and  which  Boswell  could  not  admire.  More 
grateful  still,  is  the  relief  which  we  derive  from  the 
perusal  of  his  works  ;  for  in  these  we  have  the  beauty  of 


256  LECTURES  AND  ESSAYS. 

his  mind,  and  no  shade  upon  its  wisdom  ;  the  sweetness 
of  humanity,  and  its  dignity  also. 

We  need  the  mental  refreshment,  which  writers 
like  Goldsmith  afford.  Our  active  and  our  thought- 
ful  powers  are  all  on  the  stretch  ;  and  such,  unless 
it  has  appropriate  relaxations,  is  not  a  state  of  na- 
ture or  a  state  of  health.  From  the  troubles  of  busi- 
ness, which  absorb  the  attention  or  exhaust  it;  from 
the  acclivities  of  society,  which  exemplify,  in  the 
same  degrees,  the  force  of  mechanism  and  the  force 
of  will ;  from  the  clamor  of  politics,  from  the  asperity 
of  religious  discussions,  we  turn  to  philosophy  and 
literature  for  less  fatiguing  or  less  disquieting  inter- 
ests. But  our  philosophy,  when  not  dealing  with  mat- 
ter, is  one  which,  in  seeking  the  limits  of  reason, 
carries  it  ever  into  the  infinite  and  obscure  ;  our  litera- 
ture is  one  which,  in  its  genuine  forms,  has  equal 
intensity  of  passion  and  intensity  of  expression ;  which, 
in  its  spurious  forms,  mistakes  extravagance  for  the 
one,  and  bombast  for  the  other.  Our  genuine  literature 
is  the  production  of  natural  causes,  and  has  its  peculiar 
excellence.  But  from  the  excitement  of  our  present 
literature,  whether  genuine  or  spurious,  it  is  a  pleasant 
change  to  take  up  the  tranquil  pages  of  Goldsmith  ;  to 
feel  the  sunny  glow  of  his  thoughts  upon  our  hearts, 
and  on  our  fancies  the  gentle  music  of  his  words.     In 


OLIVER   GOLDSMITH.  257 

laying  down  his  writings,  we  are  tempted  to  exclaim, 
"  O  that  the  author  of  '  The  Deserted  Village '  had 
written  more  poetry  !  O  that  the  author  of  '  The  Vicar 
of  Wakefield '  had  written  more  novels  !  " 


VOL.  I.  17 


SPIRIT  OF  IRISH  HISTORY. 


It  is  now  some  years  since  I  began  to  speak  in 
Boston.  Among  the  first  of  my  efforts,  Ireland  was 
my  theme.  I  endeavored,  as  best  as  I  could,  to  tell 
her  story.  I  was  heard  with  generous  interest,  but  it 
was  the  story,  and  not  the  teller,  that  inspired  it.  It 
was  called  for  throughout  the  length  and  breadth  of 
New  England ;  it  was  repeated  in  city  halls  and  in 
village  lyceums.  Old  and  young,  grave  and  gay,  lis- 
tened to  it  with  open  ears  and  with  eager  hearts ;  and 
to  many  of  them  it  seemed  a  new  and  wild  and  strange 
recital.  It  is  no  longer  novel.  It  is  now,  not  a  story, 
but  a  drama ;  a  black  and  fearful  drama,  which  civilized 
nations  gaze  upon  with  a  terrified  astonishment,  that 
has  no  power  to  weep.  It  was  then  gloomy  and  sad 
enough,  and  to  those  who  know  life  only  in  its  general 
comforts,  it  appeared  a  condition  which  it  would  be 
hard  to  render  worse.      But  the  presumptuousness  of 


SPIRIT    OF    IRISH   HISTORY.  259 

man  is  constantly  rebuked  by  the  vicissitude  of  events. 
It  is  but  too  surely  so  in  this  case.  There  was  yet  the 
vial  of  a  deeper  woe  in  store,  and  that  vial  is  now  open. 
Tragic  as  the  story  of  Ireland  was,  when  first  I  tried  to 
tell  it,  it  might  yet  be  given  with  those  flashes  of 
mirth  and  wit,  those  outburstings  of  fun,  and  drollery, 
and  oddity,  and  humor,  which  can  be  crushed  in  the 
Irish  heart  only  by  the  heaviest  load  of  sorrow.  Of 
such  weight  is  now  the  burden  that  lies  upon  it. 

Ireland,  now,  is  not  simply  a  place  of  struggle,  of  want, 
of  hard  work,  and  of  scanty  fare,  it  has  become  a  wil- 
derness of  starvation.  The  dreariest  visitation  which 
humanity  can  receive,  rests  upon  it  —  not  of  fire,  not 
of  the  sword,  not  of  the  plague ;  but  that,  compared 
with  which,  fire,  and  sword,  and  plague,  are  but  afflic- 
tions ;  that  is,  Hunger  —  hunger,  that  fell  and  dreadful 
thing,  which,  in  its  extremity,  preys  more  horribly  on 
the  mind,  even  than  the  body ;  which  causes  friend  to 
look  on  friend  with  an  evil  eye,  and  the  heart  of  a 
maiden  to  be  stern  to  her  lover ;  and  the  husband  to 
glare  upon  the  wife  that  nestled  in  his  bosom,  and  the 
mother  to  forget  her  sucking  child.  Such,  though  we 
trust  never  to  come  to  this  awful  extremity,  is  the 
nature  of  that  calamity,  which  lately  has  been  preying 
upon  Ireland.  It  is  not,  indeed,  at  this  awful  extremity, 
but  far  enough  towards  it,  to  spread  over  that  beautiful 


260  LECTURES  AND  ESSAYS. 

island  a  pall  of  mourning ;  far  enough  towards  it,  to 
quench  the  joy  of  childhood,  to  bow  down  the  strength 
of  men,  to  wither  the  loveliness  of  women,  to  take 
away  the  comeliness  of  the  young,  and  to  cover  the 
heads  of  the  aged  with  a  sorrow  darker  than  the  grave. 
We  cannot  think  of  it  with  other  thoughts  than  those  of 
grief.  We  cannot  refer  to  it  with  other  speech  than 
that  of  sadness.  For  my  own  part,  I  cannot  hear  of 
this  terrible  affliction ;  I  cannot  read  of  it ;  my  imagi- 
nation, of  its  own  accord,  transports  me  into  the  midst 
of  it,  and,  for  the  time,  I  dwell  in  the  company  and 
throngs  of  the  wretched.  The  necessity  that  compels 
me  to  think  and  speak  of  it,  bows  down  my  soul  to  the 
earth,  and  1  am  almost  prompted  to  exclaim,  in  the 
words  of  the  prophet,  "  O,  that  my  head  were  waters, 
and  my  eyes  were  fountains  of  tears,  that  I  might  weep 
day  and  night  for  the  slain  of  the  daughters  of  my  peo- 
ple." 

Multitudes  are  perishing  ;  that  fact  admits  neither  of 
doubt  nor  of  dispute.  Multitudes  are  perishing  ;  that 
fact  is  as  certain  as  it  is  terrible.  It  does  not  signify 
what  they  are  or  where,  the  fact  is  still  most  horrible 
and  most  appalling.  Were  they  savages  in  the  depths 
of  an  African  wilderness,  our  common  humanity  would 
urge  us  to  send  them  succor.  Were  they  the  most 
utter  strangers,  foreign  to  us  in  every  mode  of  thought 


SPIRIT    OF    IRISH   HISTORY. 


261 


and  habit,  that  can  render  nations  alien  to  each  other, 
they  would  still  be  within  the  embrace  of  that  common 
humanity,  and  its  voice  would  plead  for  them.  Were 
they  most  base  and  worthless,  both  in  character  and 
condition,  their  misfortunes  would  give  them  dignity, 
and  win  from  us  compassion.  Were  they  enemies,  and 
had  done  us  the  worst  of  injuries,  not  only  the  pre- 
cepts of  the  Gospel,  but  the  sentiments  of  magnanimity, 
would  impel  urs  to  help  them  in  the  hour  of  their  agony. 
But  they  are  none  of  these.  They  have  given  to 
civilization  some  of  its  most  quickening  elements ; 
some  of  its  most  brilliant  genius ;  some  of  its  fairest 
ornaments  ;  some  of  its  most  heroic  minds.  Numbers 
of  us,  here,  are  bone  of  their  bone,  and  flesh  of  their 
flesh ;  the  fathers  who  supported  our  youth,  live  above, 
or  lie  below,  the  green  sward  of  Erin  ;  the  mothers  who 
sang  our  infancy  to  sleep  with  its  plaintive  melodies, 
are  still  breathing  its  air,  or  gone  to  mingle  with  its 
saints  in  heaven.  To  all  of  us,  of  whatever  nation, 
they  are  kindred  in  the  ties  of  that  solemn  existence, 
which  we  .  feel  the  more  intensely,  the  more  it  is 
afllicted.  They  are  a  people,  too,  whose  own  ears 
have  been  always  open  to  the  cry  of  the  distressed. 
They  have  ever  been  willing  to  give,  not  merely  of 
their  abundance,  but  even  of  their  want ;  a  people 
whose  hospitality  is  free  as  the  wind  upon  their  moun- 


262  LECTURES  AND  ESSAYS. 

tains,  and  generous  as  the  rain  upon  their  valleys  ;  the 
fame  of  it  as  wide  as  the  earth,  and  as  old  as  their 
history.  This  people  are  now  in  grievous  troubles. 
They  are  in  the  midst  of  famine,  and  we  are  in  the 
midst  of  plenty.  Out  of  this  great  plenty  we  are  send- 
ing them  support,  and  with  support  our  pity  and  our 
prayers.  Let  us  most  gratefully  and  humbly  bless 
God,  who  has  put  this  most  blessed  privilege  in  our 
power ;  the  privilege  of  saving  those  who  are  ready  to 
perish,  and  of  causing  thousands  of  breaking  hearts  to 
sing  for  joy  ;  to  change  mourning  to  gladness,  and  the 
spirit  of  heaviness  for  the  spirit  of  praise. 

I  am  not  here  to  excite  an  interest ;  for  that  is 
already  excited,  and  has  been  working  bravely  through 
the  land  with  a  passionate  emotion.  It  has  been  shak- 
ing the  hearts  of  .this  great  people  to  the  utmost  verge 
of  their  dominion ;  agitating,  not  their  cities  alone,  but 
piercing  the  sympathies  of  those  who  dwell  in  shanties 
on  the  open  prairie,  and  by  the  half  cleared  forest ; 
melting  into  tenderness,  not  the  women  of  the  land 
alone,  but  subduing  the  hardy  men  of  the  woods,  of 
the  camp,  of  the  ship,  and  of  the  battle-field.  I  would 
not  insult  your  sympathies  by  appealing  to  them ;  I 
would  not  insult  your  generosity  by  praising  it ;  I  am 
not  here  to  plead  a  cause.  Humanity  in  millions  of 
hearts  have  effectually  pleaded  that  cause  already  ;  and 


SPIRIT    OF    IRISH    HISTORY.  263 

hands  are  lifted  up,  while  now  I  speak,  to  thank  Heaven, 
and  the  good  humanity  in  which  Heaven  lives  on  earth, 
for  the  sympathy  with  which  it  has  responded  to  the 
cries  of  afflicted  brotherhood. 

I  will  not  therefore  enlarge  on  the  present  distress ;  I 
will  not,  and  I  cannot,  go  into  its  technical  detail ; 
neither  will  I  vaguely  ascribe  this  great  suffering  to 
Providence.  I  will  not  seek  the  sources  of  it  in  the 
clouds  above,  or  in  the  earth  beneath  ;  I  will  try,  so 
far  as  my  light  leads  me,  to  seek  those  sources  in  di- 
rections where  they  may  be  intelligibly  accounted  for. 
I  would  lay  no  blame  on  the  present  generation  ;  I  do 
not  speak  of  them.  I  am  not  insensible  to  the  great 
exertions  of  the  Government  of  the  British  nation  to 
meet  the  tremendous  crisis  now  existing  ;  nor  would  I 
speak  otherwise  than  in  heartfelt,  enthusiastic  sympa- 
thy of  those  huge  manifestations  of  kindness  in  the 
British  nation,  which  show  forth  those  sublime  charities, 
that  vindicate  the  divine  and  God-imaged  character  of 
our  nature.  I  will  endeavor  to  review  the  whole  sys- 
tem, of  which  the  present  distress  is  a  part,  and  of 
which  it  is  a  result ;  I  will  endeavor  to  seek  out  whence 
it  has  originated,  and  how  it  may  be  changed ;  I  will 
endeavor  to  trace  some  of  its  causes,  and  to  indicate 
some  of  its  remedies.  I  must,  of  course,  confine  my- 
self to  a  few  striking  points,  not  alone  by  the  limits  of 


264  LECTURES  AND  ESSAYS. 

our  time,  but  by  the  requirements  of  the  occasion. 
The  occasion  is  one,  that  will  not  tolerate  much  that 
admits  greatly  of  dispute ;  it  is  one  that  requires  all 
the  conciliation  which  truth  can  sanction.  It  will  there- 
fore be  my  desire,  in  analyzing  causes,  and  in  specify- 
ing remedies,  to  take  as  broad  and  common  ground  as, 
with  my  opinions,  it  is  possible  for  me  to  take.  It  will 
be  also  my  desire  to  give  no  candid  or  just  man  offence ; 
and  though  such  a  man  may  dispute  my  positions,  I 
trust  that  he  will  have  no  complaint  to  make  against 
my  spirit,  or  against  my  temper. 

The  causes  of  Irish  distress  many  find  wholly  in  the 
character  of  the  people.  On  this  topic,  we  cannot 
afford  to  enlarge  ;  and  that  it  may  not  stand  in  our  way 
as  we  proceed,  we  will  grant,  for  the  sake  of  argument, 
that  the  character  of  the  people  is  as  idle  and  as  reckless 
as  these  philosophers  describe  it,  and  still  it  will  be  seen 
that,  to  ascribe  the  state  of  Ireland  to  this  cause  alone, 
or  to  this  cause  mainly,  is  not  only  partial  but  false  ;  at 
variance  alike  with  any  comprehensive  grasp  of  sound 
logic  or  personal  observation.  The  cause  of  any  partic- 
ular suffering  in  Ireland  is  seldom  local  or  temporary, 
seldom  to  be  found  within  itself  or  near  it.  The  causes 
even  of  the  present  destitution  are  not  all  immediate ; 
they  are  not  all  in  the  failure  of  the  potato  crop,  not 
all  in  the  character  of  those  who  plant  the  potato  and 


SPIRIT    OF   IRISH   HISTORY.  96S 

live  on  it.  The  potato,  it  is  true,  is  a  precarious  vege- 
table, and  the  people  of  Ireland,  who  have  fed  upon  it 
for  generations,  are  not  in  all  things  the  wisest  and  most 
provident  of  nations ;  but  in  any  sound  state  of  things, 
it  would  not,  surely,  be  within  the  limits  of  any  contin- 
gency, that  millions  should  wither  into  the  dust,  which 
had  failed  to  afford  nourishment  to  a  fragile  root.  Such 
afflictions  as  Ireland  is  now  enduring,  terrible  as  they 
are,  are  not  singular  in  her  experience.  They  have 
been  but  too  often  her  misfortune  ;  and  though,  to  our 
view,  they  are  strange,  they  are,  in  her  story,  suffi- 
ciently familiar.  But  these  afflictions  come  not  from 
the  skies  above  or  the  earth  beneath ;  and,  there- 
fore, we  shall  not  ascend  to  the  heavens,  nor  go 
down  to  the  deep,  to  seek  their  causes.  Most  of 
them  are  within  the  range  of  very  ordinary  inquiry, 
and  they  are  both  intelligible  and  explainable.  I  shall 
speak  on  causes  of  two  kinds  ;  one  historical,  and 
one  social. 

And,  first,  of  the  historical.  Ireland  has  long  been 
a  country  of  agitation.  The  elements  of  discord  were 
sown  early  in  her  history ;  and  throughout  her  course, 
they  have  been  nourished,  and  not  eradicated.  At 
first,  divided  into  small  principalities,  like  all  coun- 
tries so  circumstanced,  strife  was  constantly  taking 
place  among  them,  either  for  dominion  or  defence.     It 


266  LECTURES  AND  ESSAYS. 

did  not  happen  to  Ireland  as  to  England,  that  these 
separate  states  had  been  subdued  into  unity  by  a  native 
prince,  before  the  intrusion  of  a  foreign  ruler.  It  did 
not  happen  to  Ireland  as  to  England,  that  the  foreign 
ruler  took  up  his  residence  in  it,  identified  his  dignity 
with  it,  and  that  his  children  became  natives  of  the  soil. 
England,  previous  to  the  invasion  of  William  the  Con- 
queror, was  a  united  empire,  and  therefore,  though  at 
the  battle  of  Hastings,  the  occupant  of  the  throne  was 
changed,  the  integrity  of  the  nation  remained.  Ire- 
land was  made  up  of  divided  and  conflicting  states, 
when  the  myrmidons  of  Henry  the  Second  arrived 
upon  its  shores ;  and,  even  after  these  had  gained  settle- 
ments in  the  country,  there  was  no  adhesive  principle 
among  the  natives.  Had  Ireland  been  consolidated,  she 
could  not  have  been  conquered  ;  or,  being  conquered, 
she  would,  like  England,  have  absorbed  the  conquerors. 
The  spirit  of  English  nationality  was  never  stronger 
than  it  was  in  the  princes  of  the  Norman  line  ;  and  they 
asserted  it  with  a  haughtiness,  oftentimes  with  an  in- 
justice, that  rendered  them  formidable  to  every  neigh- 
boring state.  They  were  the  most  inordinately  jealous 
of  any  internal  interference  with  the  concern  of  their 
kingdom,  either  of  a  secular  or  a  spiritual  character  ; 
for  generations  they  guarded  England  with  even  a  fero- 
cious pride,  but,  also,  with  a  commendable  zeal,  they 


SPIRIT   OF    IRISH   HISTORY.  2fft 

reared  up  her  native  institutions,  and  brought  out  her 
latent  energies. 

But  the  stranger  came  to  Ireland,  and  a  stranger 
he  still  remained.  English  dominion  commenced  in 
Ireland  in  a  spirit  of  conquest,  and  it  continued  in  a 
spirit  of  exclusion.  National  animosity  thus  perpetu- 
ated, sustained  the  spirit  of  war,  and  war  raged  on 
with  a  fierceness  which  time  did  nothing  to  mitigate. 
The  native  chieftains,  when  not  in  conflict  among 
themselves,  united  against  the  common  foe;  and  the 
end  of  every  new  struggle  was  increased  oppression 
to  the  people.  Covetousness  was  added  to  the  other 
baser  passions ;  and  rapacity  inflamed  the  anarchy  in 
which  it  hoped  for  gain.  Defeated  rebellion  brought 
confiscation  ;  insurrection  was,  therefore,  the  harvest  of 
adventurers ;  soldiers  of  fortune,  or  rather  soldiers  for 
fortune,  gathered  like  wolves  to  the  battle.  They  were 
ready  to  glory  in  the  strife  and  to  profit  by  it ;  they 
enjoyed  the  soil  of  the  wretches  whom  they  slaugh- 
tered, and  the  work  seemed  as  great  a  pleasure  as  the 
recompense.  Exhausted,  however,  in  robbing  the 
aborigines,  they  sought  new  excitement  in  despoiling 
one  another ;  and,  tired  of  fighting  for  plunder,  they 
began  at  last  to  fight  for  precedence.  So  it  continued 
to  the  period  of  Elizabeth,  and  though  that  brought 
a  change,  it  did  not  bring  improvement;  for  to  the 


268  LECTtTRES   AND    ESSAYS, 

conflict  of  race,  was  now  added,  the  conflict  of  re- 
ligion. 

This  age  of  EHzabeth,  which  was  to  Europe  the 
dawn  of  many  hopes  —  this  age  of  Elizabeth,  which  was 
so  adorned  and  so  enriched  with  all  that  makes  an  age 
transcendent  —  this  age  of  Elizabeth  was  only  for  Ire- 
land a  heavy  and  a  starless  night.  The  government  of 
Elizabeth,  which  had  so  much  glory  for  England,  gave 
no  promise  to  Ireland.  Under  the  sway  of  Elizabeth, 
Ireland  lay  in  tempest  and  in  waste.  Oppression,  that 
makes  wise  men  mad,  will  provoke  even  despair  to 
resistance,  and  resistance  was  obstinate  and  frequent 
in  Ireland  to  the  rulers  whom  Elizabeth  set  above 
them.  Resistance  was  put  down  by  methods  the  most 
inhuman  ;  the  crops  were  destroyed,  dwelling-houses 
burned,  the  population  indiscriminately  massacred, 
famine  the  most  terrible  ensued,  and  hunger  withered 
those  whom  the  sword  had  spared.  The  people  were 
slaughtered, but  not  subdued  ;  the  soil  was  not  enriched, 
but  ravaged ;  no  arts  arose  ;  no  principles  of  wealth  or 
liberty  were  developed  ;  life  was  unsafe  ;  and  property 
in  the  true  sense  was  scarcely  known.  Even  the  stony 
heart  of  Elizabeth  at  length  was  touched  ;  humanity, 
for  once,  shot  a  pang  to  her  breast.  "  Alas,  alas  !  " 
she  cried ;  "  I  fear  lest  it  be  objected  to  us,  as  it 
was  to  Tiberius,  concerning  the  Dalmatian  commotions 


SPIRIT    OF    IRISH   HISTORY.  269 

—  you,  you,  it  is  who  are  to  blame,  who  have  com- 
mitted your  flock,  not  to  shepherds,  but  to  wolves." 
And  to  wolves,  they  were  still  committed.  Such  was 
the  rigor  of  the  ordinary  government,  that  a  deputy  of 
the  most  ordinary  kindness,  gained  the  worship  of  the 
unhappy  Irish,  and  became  hateful  to  the  jealous  queen ; 
so  that  the  gratitude  of  the  people  ruined,  at  the  same 
time,  their  benefactors  and  themselves.  And  yet,  this 
age  of  Elizabeth  was  a  glorious  age.  Every  where,  but 
in  Ireland,  it  was  filled  with  power  and  with  promise. 
From  the  death  of  Mary  to  that  of  James  the  First,  was 
a  period  such  as  comes  but  seldom,  and  when  it 
comes  such  as  makes  an  era.  A  mighty  life  was  pal- 
pitating among  the  nations  ;  the  head  of  civilized 
humanity  was  filled  with  many  speculations,  and  the 
heart  was  beating  with  marvellous  fancies  and  mag- 
nanimous passion.  Genius  and  glory  had  burst  as  a 
flood  of  light  upon  the  world.  The  feudal  system  was 
passing  away.  The  arm  of  its  oppression  had  been 
broken,  but  its  high-bred  courtesy  yet  remained ;  its 
violence  was  repressed,  but  its  heroic  spirit  had  not  been 
quenched.  The  courage  of  the  savage  warrior  had 
given  way  before  the  chivalry  of  the  humaner  soldier. 
The  dominion  of  superstition,  too,  had  been  broken, 
but  a  rigid  utilitarianism  had  not  yet  taken  place.  The 
spectres  of  night  had  vanished,  but  dreams  of  the 


870  LECTURES  AND  ESSAYS. 

wonderful  and  the  lovely  still  hovered  around  imagina- 
tion. The  earth  was  not  bare,  nor  the  heavens  empty. 
The  merchant  and  the  money-changer  began  to  rule 
the  city  ;  but  Queen  Mab  was  not  yet  dethroned.  She 
had  yet  her  fairy  empire  in  the  green-wood  shade ; 
she  had  yet  her  dancing  in  the  moonlit  glen.  The 
practical  had  not  yet  banished  the  romantic,  and  the 
soul  had  her  philosophy,  as  well  as  the  senses.  Co- 
lumbus had  opened  new  worlds,  and  the  old  world 
hailed  him  as  the  Moses  of  the  seas.  Dreams  of  sunny 
regions ;  of  Edens  in  the  desert ;  of  El  Doradoes  in 
the  treadless  hills,  wafted  longing  fancies  from  olden 
homes,  and  thoughts  flew  fast  and  far  on  the  crest  of 
the  wave  and  the  wing  of  the  wind.  Learning  started 
from  leaden  sleep  to  earnest  life.  Philosophy  poured 
forth  her  eloquent  wisdom  ;  and  the  thoughtful  listened 
with  enraptured  ear.  Poetry  was  filling  the  earth  with 
her  music  ;  and  Fiction  was  delighting  mankind  with 
rare  enchantment ;  and  Religion  was  busying  all  brains 
with  her  solemn  and  profound  discoursing.  Bacon  was 
sounding  the  depths  of  human  intellect,  and  calling 
from  their  silence  the  energies  of  endless  progression. 
Shakspeare  was  shaping,  to  enduring  beauty,  those 
wondrous  creations  which  embody  the  universal  life  of 
man.  Cervantes,  the  glorious  Spaniard,  in  soul  a 
brother  to  the  glorious  Briton,  had  sent  forth  among 


SPIRIT    OF    IHISH   HISTORY.  271 

men's  fancies,  Don  Quixotte  and  Sancha  Panza ;  the 
high-dreaming'knight,  and  the  low-thinking  squire  ;  the 
grave  in  company  with  the  grotesque,  a  goodly  image 
of  humanity  for  everlasting  laughter  and  everlasting 
love.  Luther  had  arisen,  awful  and  gigantic,  half  the 
earth  his  platform,  and  millions  of  excited  men  his 
audience.  Liberty  had  began  to  know  her  rights,  and 
weis  gathering  courage  to  maintain  them.  Traditional 
claims  had  already  lost  in  the  contest  against  natural 
justice.  Priests  and  princes  had  ceased  to  be  gods,  and 
the  people  were  fast  rising  to  be  men.  Commerce  had 
enlarged  her  boundaries  ;  wealth  had  increased  its  en- 
terprise ;  independence  had  grown  with  industry.  The 
course  of  freedom  went  nobly  onward.  Britain  had 
humbled  Spain  ;  and  Holland,  after  one  of  the  most 
heroic  struggles  in  the  history  of  patriotism,  had  cast  off 
the  Spanish  yoke.  While  Europe  was  thus  rejoicing  in 
spreading  grandeur,  the  fairest  island  on  its  western 
border,  with  every  means  of  prosperity  and  glory,  lay 
like  a  ruin  at  moonlight,  where  pirates  had  assembled 
to  divide  their  plunder  in  blasphemy  and  in  blood. 

James  of  Scotland,  the  successor  of  his  mother's 
slayer,  treated  unfortunate  Ireland  with  no  gentler 
policy.  Without  accusation  of  sedition  or  rebellion,  he 
alienated  six  counties  from  their  owners,  and  colonized 
them  with  his  countrymen.     The  outcasts  wandered  on 


878  LECTUKES  AND  ESSAYS. 

their  own  soil,  as  strangers  and  as  vagabonds.  Fearful 
deeds  were  done  in  revenge  and  retribution  during  the 
terrible  insurrection  of  1641,  which  occurred  in  the 
reign  of  this  man's  son.  Deadly  passions  mingled  to- 
gether in  the  strife,  as  elements  in  the  hurricane  ;  and 
the  blood  of  reformer  and  the  blood  of  Romanist,  swell- 
ed the  common  torrent.  England,  too,  became  con- 
vulsed with  trouble.  Charles  endeavored  to  ingratiate 
the  Irish,  and  to  a  considerable  extent  he  succeeded. 
But,  their  assistance  availed  the  unhappy  monarch 
nothing ;  and  ere  his  blood  was  well  nigh  clotted  on  the 
block,  they  had  Cromwell  of  the  iron  hand,  dealing 
death  upon  themselves. 

It  is  not  my  province,  here,  even  if  my  power  an- 
swered to  the  task,  to  draw  a  complete  moral  portrait 
of  Cromwell.  I  am  simply  to  speak  of  him  in  relation 
to  Ireland  ;  and,  in  that  relation,  he  was  a  steel-hearted 
exterminator.  I  have  no  inclination  to  deny  him  gran- 
deur, and  if  I  had,  the  general  verdict  would  stand 
independently  of  my  inclination.  Whether  the  moralist 
approve,  or  whether  he  condemn,  the  world  always 
enthrones  will,  and  power,  and  success  ;  and  that  which 
it  enthrones,  it  worships.  How  much  in  Cromwell  was 
the  honesty  of  a  patriot,  how  much  was  the  policy  of  a 
designer  ;  how  much  was  purity,  how  much  was  ambi- 
tion, which  so  predominated,  the  evil  or  the  good,  as 


SPIRIT    OF    IRISH    HISTORY.  ftl^ 

to  constitute  his  character;  this  will  probably  be  de- 
cided in  opposite  directions  by  opposite  parties  to  the 
end  of  history.  Whatever  be  the  decision  on  the  man, 
measured  as  a  whole,  the  facts  of  his  career  in  Ireland 
show  him  to  have  been  most  cruel  and  most  sanguinary. 
Nor  are  these  facts  inconsistent  with  our  general  idea 
of  the  dictator's  character.  A  dark  compound  of  the 
daring  soldier  and  the  religious  zealot,  uniting  in  one 
spirit  the  austerest  attributes  of  each,  stern  in  purpose, 
and  rapid  in  execution,  he  was  the  man  for  a  mission  of 
destruction.  The  Irish,  on  many  accounts,  were  pecu- 
liarly hateful  to  him.  They  were  the  adherents  of 
defeated  royalty.  They  were  not  simply  prelatists, 
which  were  in  itself  offensive ;  but  they  were  papists, 
and  that  was  hideous  iniquity.  They  were  not  only 
aliens,  they  were  worse  than  aliens;  they  were  out- 
casts, the  doomed  of  prophecy,  the  sealed  of  Anti- 
christ. They  were  the  modern  Canaanites,  and  he 
was  the  modern  Joshua,  the  anointed  of  the  Lord,  to 
deal  judgment  on  the  reprobate  ;  and  judgment  he 
dealt  with  vengeance,  with  vengeance  that  knew  no 
touch  of  mercy.  His  track  in  Ireland  may  be  followed 
over  ruins  which  yet  seem  fresh.  We  can  trace  him 
as  we  do  a  ravenous  animal,  by  the  blotches  where  he 
lay  to  rest,  or  by  the  bloody  fragments  where  he  tore 
his  prey.     The  Irish  peasantry  still  speak  of  this  man 

VOL.   I.  18 


274  LECTURES  AND  ESSAYS. 

with  those  vivid  impressions,  which,  of  all  passions, 
terror  alone  can  leave.  They  allude  to  him  in  the 
living  phraseology,  which  only  that  can  prompt  which 
moves  us  nearly,  and,  therefore,  moves  us  strongly  ; 
they  allude  to  him,  not  as  if  he  were  a  shadow  in  the 
dimness  of  two  centuries,  but  as  if  he  were  an  agent  of 
recent  days.  Stop,  as  you  pass  a  laborer  on  the  road- 
side in  Ireland  ;  ask  him  to  tell  you  of  the  ruin  before 
you  on  the  hill.  You  will  hear  him  describe  it  in  lan- 
guage far  more  poetical  and  far  more  picturesque  than 
I  can  copy,  but  somewhat  in  manner  such  as  this  : 
"  Och,  sure,  that 's  the  castle  o'  the  Cogans,  that  Crom- 
well, the  blackguard,  took  away  from  them.  But  maybe 
they  did  'nt  fight,  while  fightin'  was  in  them,  the  poor 
fellows;  barrin'  there's  no  strivin'  agin  the  devil,  the 
Lord  presarve  us,  and  every  body  knows  that  Crom- 
well, bad  win  to  him,  was  hand  and  glove  wid  the  ould 
boy  ;  musha,  faix  he  was,  as  sure  as  there  's  fish  in  the 
say,  or  pigs  in  Connaught.  There  's  the  hill  where  the 
wagabond  planted  his  cannon.  There  's  the  farm  which 
the  Blaneys  got  for  sell  in'  the  Pass,  the  white-livered 
thraitors ;  there's  the  brache  which  he  made  in  the 
walls,  where  brave  Square  Cogan  —  a  bed  in  heaven 
to  his  soul  —  was  killed,  wid  his  six  fine  darlant  sons, 
as  strappin'  boys  as  you  'd  meet  in  a  long  summer's 
day.     Och,  wirra,  wirra,  struh  ;  bud  Cogan  was  a  man 


SPIEIT    OF    IRISH   HISTORY.  275 

it  would  do  your  heart  good  to  see  ;  my  vardi  av,  it 
would  n't  keep  the  frosht  out  of  your  stomach  the  black- 
est day  in  winther ;  full  and  plinty  were  in  his  house, 
and  the  poor  never  went  impty  from  his  door ;  as  I 
heard  my  grandmother  say,  that  heard  it  from  her 
grandmother,  that,  be  the  same  token,  was  Cogan's 
cousin.  Och,  bud,  with  fair  fighting,  Cogan  did  n't  fear 
the  face  of  man,  and,  sure  enough,  when  Cromwell 
commanded  him  to  surrender,  he  tould  infarnal  copper- 
nose,  he  'd  ate  his  boots  first ;  throth  he  would,  and 
his  stockings  after,  av  there  was  the  laste  use  in  it ; 
bud  the  man 's  not  born'd  of  woman,  that  can  stand 
against  a  wlielp  of  hell ;  and,  av  ould  Nick  iver  had  a 
son,  my  word  for  it  bud  his  name  was  Oliver." 

The  cause  of  the  Stuart,  that  family  so  faithless  to 
their  friends,  and  so  fatal  to  themselves,  next  made 
Ireland  the  battle-ground  of  faction.  Again  her  green 
hills  were  sown  with  blood  ;  again  her  pleasant  valleys 
were  scorched  with  famine.  The  infatuated  Catholics 
joined  that  wretched  imbecile,  James  the  Second,  while 
the  Protestants,  with  a  wiser  policy,  gathered  to  the 
standard  of  William  the  Dutchman,  the  son-in-law  of 
James,  and  his  opponent.  The  fortunes  of  James 
received  their  first  blow  at  the  siege  of  Derry  in  the 
north ;  were  staggered  at  the  battle  of  the  Boyne,  mid- 
way in  the  kingdom  ;  and  were  fatally  decided  at  the 


!376  LECTURES    AND    ESSAYS. 

taking  of  Limerick  in  the  south.  The  fall  of  Limerick 
closed  the  war.  James  had  fled ;  and  William  remain- 
ed the  victor.  Limerick  did  not  go  out  of  the  contest 
ignominiously.  Even  the  women  threw  themselves 
into  the  breach,  and  for  that  time  saved  the  city ;  nor 
did  the  city,  itself,  surrender,  but  on  terms  which  com- 
prehended the  whole  of  Ireland.  Limerick  capitulated 
on  the  part  of  all  the  Irish  Catholics.  The  capitulation 
was  but  signed,  when  a  large  French  fleet  appeared  in 
the  river,  with  extensive  supplies  and  numerous  rein- 
forcements. But  with  the  good  faith  of  honorable  men, 
fifteen  thousand  laid  down  their  arms,  and  were  true  to 
their  engagements.  The  terms  of  this  treaty  were  fair 
and  advantageous.  They  secured  to  the  Catholics  the 
rights  of  property,  of  liberty,  and  of  conscience,  and  all 
things  seemed  to  augur  well  for  peace,  for  unity,  and 
for  happiness. 

Had  the  victors  been  merciful  with  power,  and 
generous  with  success,  'had  they  been  just,  nay,  had 
they  been  wisely  politic,  Ireland  might  have  been  tran- 
quillized, and  her  prosperity  might  have  commenced. 
•But  it  was  an  age  of  faction,  and  faction  was  true 
to  its  vilest  instincts.  The  legislation  that  followed 
this  event,  was  intensely  exclusive,  and  it  was  exclu- 
sively Protestant.  The  whole  power  of  the  countiy 
was  in  the  hands  of  a  Protestant  aristocracy.     The  first 


SPIRIT    OF    IHISH    HISTORY.  277 

action,  then,  of  the  Parliament  in  Ireland,  after  the 
reduction  of  Limerick,  was  to  annul  its  treaty,  a  treaty 
as  solemn  as  any  that  history  records  ;  a  treaty  made  in 
the  face  of  armies,  and  which  pledged  the  faith  of 
nations.  And,  not  only  that,  but  it  was  followed  by  a 
code  of  laws,  which  would  have  been  a  shame  upon 
the  reign  of  Nero  ;  a  code  of  laws  which  made,  at  one 
time,  the  Catholic  religion  a  capital  offence  ;  and  which, 
when  greatly  mitigated,  denied  to  Catholics  the  means 
of  education,  the  claims  of  property,  and  the  rights  of 
citizens.  Legislation  like  this  was,  of  course,  disas- 
trous. Strange,  indeed,  if  it  were  not.  If  it  were  not, 
history  were  a  lie,  and  all  experience  a  dream  ;  if  it 
were  not,  human  nature  were,  itself,  a  confounding 
delusion.  It  was  disastrous  to  the  Protestant  religion, 
which  it  pretended  to  support ;  it  was  disastrous  to  the 
interests  of  England,  which  it  promised  to  maintain  ; 
it  was  disastrous,  also,  to  the  unhappy  people  whose 
energies  it  crushed  ;  but,  that  the  law  of  compensation 
should  not  utterly  fail  —  that  some  evidence  should  be 
given  to  earth,  that  even  on  earth  crime  does  not  go 
unpunished  —  it  was  disastrous  to  its  enactors. 

Man  can  never  separate  himself  from  his  fellows. 
He  can  never  make  their  evil  his  good.  The  darkness 
which  he  draws  upon  his  country,  will  overshadow 
his  own  home  ;    and  the    misery  which  he  prepares 


278  LECTURES  AND  ESSAYS. 

for  his  neighbor,  will  be  misery  for  himself.  So 
it  was  with  the  authors  of  these  evil  laws ;  so  it 
ever  must  be,  while  moral  right  binds  actions  to  appro- 
priate consequences,  while  a  God  of  eternal  justice 
governs  the  world  by  principles  which  are  as  immutable 
as  they  are  holy.  The  possessions  which  rapine  had 
acquired,  and  which  wrong  controlled,  did  not  give  such 
return  as  the  covetous  heart  desired.  By  confiscation, 
by  penalties,  by  all  modes  of  harsh  restriction,  the 
kingdom  was  drained  of  its  native  intelligence  and 
native  strength.  Wealth  of  sentiment,  wealth  of  capital, 
wealth  of  skill,  wealth  of  industry,  wealth  of  muscle, 
were  driven  from  the  country,  or  paralyzed  within  it. 
The  high  chivalry  which  generous  treatment  would 
have  retained,  directed  foreign  courts,  commanded 
foreign  armies;  while  a  hardy  yeomanry  that  indul- 
gence could  have  made  loyal  forever,  carried  bravery 
to  the  ranks  of  England's  enemies,  and  labor  to  their 
markets. 

And,  observe  with  what  a  solemn  retribution  the 
consequences  return  upon  the  class  who  enacted  or 
favored  this  kind  of  legislation.  The  laws  against 
Catholics  pressed  upon  the  whole  tenantry  of  Ireland, 
for  the  whole  tenantry  of  Ireland  were,  and  are  Catholic. 
The  laws,  therefore,  against  the  Catholics,  were  so 
many  enactments  against  the  interests  of  the  landlords 


SPIRIT    OF    IRISH   HISTORY.  279 

themselves  ;  were,  in  fact,  so  many  tariffs  against 
their  wealth'.  Uncertainty  of  title  disturbed  industry  ; 
the  soil  withered  under  imperfect  cultivation  ;  absen- 
teeism of  proprietors  left  the  laborers  without  protec- 
tion, and  the  owners  without  profit.  Only  meagre 
harvests  were  gathered  from  exhausted  fields.  Trade 
had  no  scope  in  impoverished  cities;  the  peasantry 
were  starving,  and  the  gentry  were  poor.  This  gentry, 
poor,  but  luxurious,  lived  upon  estates  that  were  mise- 
rably deteriorated,  as  if  they  were  in  pristine  freshness  ; 
and  doing  nothing  to  enrich  the  soil,  they  would  have 
from  it  the  utmost  rents  ;  and  thence  they  became 
indebted,  and  thence  they  became  embarrassed.  To 
dig  they  were  not  able,  but  to  beg  they  were  not 
ashamed.  They  begged  pensions,  places,  sinecures  ; 
and  no  work  was  so  unjust  or  mean,  which  they  were 
not  willing  to  do  for  government,  if  government  was 
liberal  enough  in  patronage.  Gaming,  gormandizing, 
profanity,  licentiousness,  became  aristocratic  distinc- 
tions. Honor  there  was  to  kill,  but  not  honesty  to  pay  ; 
and  the  man  who  shot  his  friend  for  an  inadvertent 
word,  could  bear,  if  any  thing  was  to  be  gained  by  it, 
the  reiterated  insolence  of  a  viceroy's  menial.  The 
wages  being  ready,  here  was  the  hireling ;  and  the 
slave,  in  his  turn,  became  the  tyrant.  The  self-respect 
which  he  lost  as  a  time-server,  he  sought,   after  the 


280  LECTURES    AND    ESSAYS. 

manner  of  all  low  natures,  to  regain  as  an  oppressor  ; 
and  the  hardship  of  the  forlorn  serf  paid  for  the  morti- 
fication of  the  suppliant  official.  These  men  who,  in 
clement  and  charitable  duties,  might  have  been  as  gods, 
enjoying  and  dispensing  blessings,  taking  the  evil  way  of 
persecution,  found  their  due  reward  in  being  despised 
by  those  whom  they  served,  and  in  being  detested  by 
those  whom  they  governed. 

If  any  one  shall  think  this  tone  exaggerated,  then 
I  ask  him  to  look  at  the  Memoirs  of  Sir  Jonah 
Barrington,  in  which  he  may  study,  at  his  leisure,  the 
manners  of  the  Irish  gentlemen  in  the  last  century ; 
the  picture,  too,  is  painted  by  one  of  themselves  ;  by 
one  who  shared  all  their  partialities  for  combat  and  for 
claret,  for  pensions  and  for  place. 

Events  rapidly  proceeded  to  bring  relief  to  Ireland, 
and  partially  to  bring  freedom.  Cornwallis  was  cap- 
tured at  Yorktown,  and  America  sprung  into  her  glory 
from  a  province  to  a  nation.  The  volunteers  arose  in 
Ireland,  and  forty  thousand,  with  arms  in  their  hands, 
demanded  independence.  Henry  Grattan  gave  their 
passions  sublime  expression.  Corruption  was  startled 
from  the  apathy  of  indulgence,  and  the  guilty  were 
struck  with  fear  as  with  the  voice  of  a  prophet.  Grattan 
called  Ireland  up  from  the  dust  of  most  servile  degrada- 
tion.    He  put  brave  words  into  her  mouth,  and  a  new 


SPIRIT    OF    IRISH   HISTORY.  281 

hope  into  her  heart;  and  although  upon  his  own  lips 
the  words  afterwards  sunk  into  complaint,  and  the  hope 
withered  to  despondency,  he  was  not  the  less  heroic  on 
that  account.  Speaking  at  one  time  of  Ireland,  he 
asserts  that  she  is  a  nation.  Speaking  of  her  again,  he 
says,  "  1  sat  by  her  cradle,  I  followed  her  hearse ; " 
but  always  he  was  her  champion,  and  he  was  her 
friend.  Lowly  as  she  was  when  he  entered  upon  life, 
he  determined  that  she  should  not  so  remain.  He 
caused  her  to  arise,  august  and  majestic,  before  her 
tyrants,  bound  as  she  was  with  their  sackcloth.  He 
called  on  her  to  assume  her  might,  and  taught  her  the 
strength  that  yet  slumbered  in  her  breast.  He  was  the 
fearless  accuser  of  her  enemies.  He  dragged  the 
villains  into  open  light,  that  trampled  on  her  rights,  and 
that  battened  on  her  miseries.  He  loved  her  with  an 
enthusiasm  that  only  death  could  quench.  She  was 
the  passion  of  his  soul,  the  devotion  of  his  life.  Mighty 
in  his  eloquence,  he  was  yet  mightier  in  his  patriotism. 
The  effects  of  his  eloquence  are  left  in  the  history  of 
his  country ;  and  in  me  it  would  be  vain,  as  it  would 
be  impertinent,  to  describe,  in  my  feeble  words,  the 
power  of  such  speech  as  his  —  speech  that  made  the 
proudest  quail  —  speech  that  shivered  and  prostrated 
the  most  able  and  the  most  iniquitous  faction,  which 
personal  selfishness  and  political  corruption  ever  banded 


282  LECTURES  AND  ESSAYS. 

together  in  gainful  wickedness.  Rapid,  intense,  scorn- 
ful, indignant,  his  spirit  was  formed  for  contest.  Fiery 
in  passion,  and  brilliant  in  intellect,  his  antithetic  lan- 
guage shot*  forth  as  lightning,  as  beautiful  and  as 
fatal.  Of  stern  and  stoic  grandeur,  he  was  the  re- 
former who  was  wanted  among  evil,  exalted,  and 
educated  men.  He  was  not  of  the  gladsome  fancy, 
which  gathers  flowers  and  weaves  a  garland  ;  he  was 
of  the  impetuous  temper  which  rises  upon  the  storm, 
and  plays  among  the  clouds.  With  individuals,  he 
may  not  always  have  been  in  the  right,  and  with  his 
country  he  was  never  in  the  wrong. 

The  French  Revolution  came,  then,  to  rock  poli- 
tical Europe  with  its  tremendous  earthquake.  Hoary 
dynasties  rocked  on  their  foundations.  Decrepid  le- 
gitimacy trembled  and  looked  aghast.  The  terrible 
insurrection  of  1798  brought  fresh  desolation  to  Ire- 
land. Some  interludes  of  jail  and  gibbet  being  gone 
through,  an  afterpiece  was  added  to  this  horrible  drama 
in  1830,  signalized  by  the  death  of  Lord  Kilwarden, 
and  by  the  execution  of  the  noble-hearted  Emmett. 
You  all  know  the  story  of  his  heroism,  and  his  love ; 
you  know  how  he  fell  in  the  prime  of  a  most  manly 
nature  ;  you  know  how  a  true  and  beautiful  spirit 
laid  her  broken  heart  upon  his  grave.  Your  own 
Washington  Irving  has  told  you  this  in  words  of  rain- 


SPIRIT    OF    IRISH    HISTORY. 

bow  light ;  your  own  Irving,  whose  liberal  genius  loves 
the  good  of  every  land ;  and  when  he  gives  their  annals, 
none  can  add  beauty  to  the  record.  You  have  the 
ashes  of  an  exiled  Emmett  among  you  ;  shrouded  on 
the  soil  of  liberty,  he  lies  in  sacred  sleep.  You  gave 
him  in  life  a  freeman's  home  ;  in  death  you  have  given 
him  a  patriot's  grave. 

Among  the  mighty  spirits  which  have  been  lights  to 
Ireland,  I  will  mention  one  who,  in  this  sad  period, 
was  pre-eminent.  I  allude  to  Curran,  the  glory  of  the 
Irish  bar.  Most  exalted  in  his  oratory,  and  most  gene- 
rous in  his  use  of  it,  he  was  ever  what  the  true  man 
would  wish  to  be  —  if  his  power  enabled  him,  the 
defender  of  liberty,  the  champion  of  the  wronged. 
With  a  moral  intellect  of  the  widest  grasp,  he  had  an 
imagination  of  subtle  delicacy  and  of  gorgeous  wealth  ; 
and  this  intellect,  impulsive  with  a  superhuman  fervor, 
and  this  imagination,  lyrical  as  the  very  soul  of  poetry, 
became,  in  their  union,  an  enthusiasm  that  dared  the 
loftiest  heights  and  gained  them.  But,  though  soaring, 
it  was  not  solitary.  If  it  mounted  upwards  to  the  skies, 
it  was  borne  thither  on  the  aspirations  of  all  generous 
interests.  It  carried  others  to  its  own  proud  climbings ; 
and  they,  for  the  moment,  transported  from  the  lower 
earth,  burned  with  its  electric  fire,  and  became  godlike 
in  its  communicated  lustre.     How  various  is  the  elo- 


284  LECTURES  AND  ESSAYS. 

quence  in  which  that  opulent  spirit  found  expression. 
It  is  wit,  ready  and  exhaustless ;  piercing  as  the  pointed 
steel,  or  lambent  as  a  ray  of  light ;  now  playful  as  a 
gleeful  child,  and  then  mischievous  as  a  merry  fiend. 
It  is  humor,  in  all  queer  analogies,  in  all  shapes  of  oddity, 
in  all  lights  and  hues  of  fantasy.  It  is  sarcasm,  which 
lashes  its  victim  to  despair.  It  is  pathos,  which  wrings 
the  heart ;  which  touches  it  in  every  nerve,  where 
agony  is  borne  ;  which  searches  it  in  every  fold  where 
the  smallest  drop  of  grief  can  lie  concealed.  It  is  de- 
nunciation. And,  here  he  is  greatest  of  all.  How 
does  he  exhibit  the  wrong-doer  !  How  does  he  show 
the  transgressor  his  ways !  How  does  he  display  the 
tortures  of  an  accusing  conscience,  the  sickness  of  a 
guilty  soul,  the  apathy  of  habit,  the  damnation  of 
remorse  ! 

And  no  matter  who  the  wrong-doer  is,  let  him  trem- 
ble, if  Curran  is  to  paint  his  deeds.  Proud  he  may  be 
in  titles,  boundless  in  wealth,  hardened  in  the  bronze  of 
fashion ;  if  he  is  human,  the  orator's  words  shall  transfix 
him ;  wherever  feeling  has  a  sense,  a  barb  shall  rankle  ; 
and  for  the  time,  at  least,  he  shall  stand  before  the 
world,  naked,  bleeding,  shivering,  and  despised ;  to  his 
species  a  thing  of  scorn,  and  to  himself  a  thing  of 
shame.  Office  shall  no  more  protect  him  than  rank. 
Is  he  a  judge,  who  sullies  the  purity  of  the  bench  with 


SPIRIT    OF    IRISH   HISTORY. 

the  malice  of  a  partisan  ?  His  ermine  shall  not  guard 
him  from  the  advocate's  indignation  ;  and  the  tribunal 
which  he  disgraces,  shall,  in  its  very  loftiness,  but  make 
his  ignominy  the  more  conspicuous.  Neither  shall  a 
villain  find  a  shield  in  the  baseness  of  his  work  or  the 
obscurity  of  his  condition.  Is  he  a  spy,  whom  govern- 
ment pays  for  perjury,  the  hireling  violator  of  human 
faith  and  human  nature  —  a  wretch  that  panders  for  the 
gallows,  and  steeps  his  feet  in  widows'  and  in  orphans' 
tears  ?  Cased  and  coated  as  his  heart  may  be  in  ada- 
mant, callous  as  may  be  his  brutish  face,  stolid  as  may 
be  his  demon-soul,  Curran  could  cleave  the  armor  of 
his  wickedness,  and  shake  his  miscreant  spirit  with  fear, 
when  it  had  lost  even  the  memory  of  a  virtue. 

It  is  not,  however,  the  power  of  Curran's  eloquence, 
but  the  purpose  of  it,  which  has  relation  to  this 
lecture.  It  was  for  the  weak  against  the  strong. 
Curran  lived  in  times  which  tried  men's  souls,  and 
many  souls  there  were,  which  did  not  stand  the  trial. 
Some,  with  coward  fear,  sank  before  the  storm  of 
power ;  and  others,  with  selfish  pliancy,  dissolved  in 
the  sunshine  of  patronage.  But  Curran  was  brave 
as  he  was  incorruptible.  In  1798,  he  labored  with 
a  martyr's  patience,  and  with  a  hero's  courage.  He 
pleaded  under  the  shadow  of  the  scaffold.  He  de- 
fended one  client  over  the  dead  body  of  another ;  and 


286  LECTURES    AND    ESSAYS. 

while  the  victim  is  expiring  on  the  gallows,  for  whom 
yesterday  he  struggled,  with  no  hope  to  cheer  his  labor, 
he  struggles  as  manfully  to-day  for  one  who  will  be 
the  victim  of  to-morrow.  He  was  upright,  when  honor 
was  rebellion ;  he  was  true,  when  integrity  was  treason ; 
he  stood  by  the  accused  and  the  doomed,  when  to  pity 
was  to  participate  ;  and  he  was  loyal  to  liberty,  when 
even  to  name  her,  was  almost  to  die. 

The  year  1829  saw  the  Catholic  emancipated,  and 
now  he  stands  with  other  British  subjects,  in  equality  of 
privilege  and  equality  of  grievance.  The  later  history 
of  Ireland  has  had  three  grand  epochs,  and  in  each  has 
had  a  man  fashioned  for  the  time.  In  1781,  the  Par- 
liament of  Ireland  contended  for  independence ;  then 
there  arose  the  majestic  spirit  of  immortal  G  rattan ;  all 
that  was  claimed,  he  asserted,  and  all  that  he  asserted, 
he  achieved.  In  1798,  the  liberty  of  the  citizens  was 
set  at  nought;  the  impetuous  voice  of  Curran  arose 
above  the  storm,  and  if  it  was  not  able  to  quell  injustice, 
it  bore  witness  to  the  right.  In  1829,  six  millions  were 
emancipated,  and,  with  that  sublime  event,  the  name  of 
O'Connell  is  forever  associated.  But,  not  with  that 
year  or  that  event  alone,  the  name  of  O'Connell  is  con- 
nected with  the  indefatigable  struggle  of  half  a  century ; 
it  is  not  only  sacred  in  the  liberty  of  his  country,  but  in 
the  liberty  of  man ;  and   the  fame  of  it  will  become 


SPiniT    OF    IRISH   HISTORY.  287 

wider  and  brighter,  as  freedom  covers  the  earth,  and  a 
slave  is  not  known  in  the  world. 

The  historical  aspect  of  our  subject,  presents  us  with 
nothing  but  disunion  and  mismanagement;  and  the 
social,  to  which  we  must  now  briefly  refer,  presents 
us  with  nothing  better.  We  observe  in  the  structure 
of  Irish  society,  not  merely  that  the  elements  of  it  are 
fragmentary,  but  antagonistic.  There  is,  for  instance, 
little  of  a  native  aristocracy ;  and  there  is  no  country 
on  the  earth,  which  so  respects  and  reverences  its 
mighty  names.  The  old  families,  Celtic  and  Saxon, 
were  successively  stripped  of  their  estates.  It  was 
asserted  by  Chancellor  Fitzgibbon,  that  the  island  had 
changed  owners  three  times  in  a  century.  The  aris- 
tocracy in  Ireland,  have,  therefore,  remained  away 
from  the  people.  Their  existence  is  entirely  a  sepa- 
rate one  ;  their  education  is  distinct ;  their  feelings  are 
anti-national ;  their  sympathies  are  foreign  ;  they  are 
aliens  after  two  centuries  of  possession.  No  people 
are  more  easily  governed  than  the  Irish  through  their 
imagination  and  affections.  Appeal  successfully  to 
these  faculties,  and  you  may  rule  them  as  you  please. 
If  you  would  have  power  with  the  English,  appeal  to 
their  interest ;  show  to  them  that  you  can  lessen  their 
taxes,  and  that  you  can  increase  their  loaf.  If  you 
would  gain  power  with  the  Irish,  appeal  to  their  senti- 


288  LECTURES  AND  ESSAYS. 

ments  ;  show  them  that  you  would  bring  back  to  Ire- 
land, the  glory  that  has  departed ;  that  you  would 
re-string  their  national  Harp,  and  re-kindle  her  national 
oratory;  that  you  would  re-build  the  Halls  of  Tara, 
and  flood  them  with  the  music  of  her  bards ;  that  you 
would  re-open  the  doors  of  her  senate,  and  fill  its  courts 
with  the  eloquence  of  her  statesmen. 

But,  to  understand  a  people,  you  must  live  with  them ; 
nay,  you  must  have  within  you  the  life  of  their  life ;  and 
without  this  understanding  of  a  people,  you  will  vainly 
try  to  work  on  their  sentiments.  You  can  work  on 
their  sentiments  only  by  sympathy.  You  must  freely 
appreciate  their  virtues;  you  must  have  that  also  in 
you,  which  can  penetrate  the  spirit  even  of  their  vices. 
Herein  was  the  power  of  O'Connell.  It  was  not  all 
in  the  genius  of  the  man ;  nor  was  it  all  in  the  wrongs 
of  the  government.  Much  of  the  secret  lay  in  the 
profound  insight  which  he  ever  had  of  the  character 
of  the  people ;  the  complete  identification  of  his  na- 
ture with  theirs.  His  words  were  resistless,  for  they 
were  the  echoes  of  the  hearts  around  him,  and  with 
the  beatings  of  these  hearts,  his  own  heart  kept 
time.  The  Irish  aristocrat  has  no  such  unity  with 
the  people ;  nay,  he  has  scarcely  an  external  ac- 
quaintance with  them.  He  has  not  the  affection  of 
a  native,  and  he  wants  the  impartiality  of  a  stranger. 


SPIRIT    OF    IRISH   HISTORY.  289 

His  life  is  a  sort  of  penance  for  his  birth.  He  would 
not  be  an  Irishman,  and  he  cannot  be  an  Englishman. 
He  looks  splenetically  across  the  channel,  and  mourns 
that  his  trooper-ancestor  gave  him  any  thing  in  Ireland 
but  its  acres.  He  then  turns  a  sullen  gaze  upon  the 
soil  on  which  he  has  had  the  misfortune  to  be  born, 
and  which  has  had  the  still  greater  misfortune  to  bear 
him.  He  is  to  his  tenantry,  not  so  much  a  protector  as 
a  superior ;  a  claimant  rather  than  a  patron ;  an  exactor 
more  than  an  improver ;  always  a  receiver,  and  seldom 
a  bestower. 

This  opposition  of  interior  feeling  between  the  higher 
and  lower  classes  in  Ireland,  is  lamentably  exemplified 
by  a  corresponding  contrast  of  external  circumstances. 
Irish  society  is  a  living  antithesis,  of  which  the  peer  and 
the  peasant  are  no  fanciful  extremes.  The  peasant 
shows  what  privations  life  can  endure ;  the  peer,  with 
what  indulgence  it  can  become  a  burden.  The  peasant 
works,  but  does  not  eat ;  the  peer  eats,  but  does  not 
work.  The  food  of  the  peasant  is,  also,  the  food  of  the 
brutes ;  that  of  the  peer  were  a  banquet  for  the  gods. 
The  peasant  sows,  and  reaps,  and  gathers  into  barns, 
and  carries  the  crop  to  market,  and  carries  nothing 
home ;  the  peer  sows  not,  reaps  not,  gathers  not  into 
barns,  carries  not  the  crop  to  market,  and  has  all  the 
gain  without  even  the  trouble  of  carrying  it  home, 

VOL.   I.  19 


290  LECTURES  AND  ESSAYS. 

It  makes  some  difference  to  the  peer,  whether  his  ter- 
ritory is  fertile  or  barren ;  for  he  has  whatever  it  pro- 
duces ;  it  makes  none  to  the  peasant,  for  small  crop  or 
abundant,  his  lot  is  still  the  same,  to  toil  and  to  starve. 
The  manor  houses  of  the  Irish  gentry  are  situated  in 
the  midst  of  extensive  domains,  surrounded  by  lofty 
walls,  and  guarded  by  surly  gate-keepers.  The  finest 
of  these  places  are  often  girded  by  deserts  of  the  most 
squalid  misery.  The  owners  are  in  them  on  rare 
occasions,  and  then,  it  is  to  revel  in  the  midst  of 
want. 

Suppose  yourself  a  guest  on  one  of  these  occasions. 
Look  around  you  on  the  scene !  The  princely  park 
without,  and  the  ornamented  halls  within  ;  slope,  wood- 
land, garden,  hill,  dale,  and  river,  glowing  in  the  out- 
ward prospect;  the  inward  view,  that  of  a  kingly 
residence  furnished  for  every  refined  desire;  adorned 
with  mirrors,  statues,  pictures,  replenished  with  what- 
ever can  delight  the  fancy  or  feast  the  senses.  Think, 
then,  of  a  tenant  peasantry,  physically  more  deplorable 
than  the  serfs  of  Turkey;  and  when  you  have  thus 
thought,  look  calmly  on  the  assembly  before  you. 
Here,  gathered  at  joyous  night,  is  a  throng  of  the  noble 
and  the  fair;  men  of  gallant  bearing,  and  women  of 
surpassing  beauty.  Lights  stream  over  decorations 
which  almost  transcend  what  eastern  story  feigned  of 


SPIRIT    OF    IRISH    HISTORY.        '  291 

eastern  magic ;  music  floats  upon  the  perfumed  air, 
and  grace  rules  the  mazes  of  the  dance.  When 
you  recollect  the  haggard  country  through  which 
you  passed,  to  arrive  at  such  a  mansion ;  when  you 
recollect  the  hovels  that  afllicted  you  on  the  way, 
the  sad  faces  that  stared  you,  as  you  went  along, 
that  constantly  subdued  your  reveries  to  grief;  when 
you  recollect  the  fever  and  the  hunger,  that,  as  you 
travelled  by  then,  appalled  your  very  soul ;  all  that  you 
see  in  this  abode  of  grandeur,  appears  unnatural ;  it 
seems  a  brilliant,  and  yet  an  agonizing  vision ;  an  illu- 
sion by  some  evil  genius,  powerful  to  delight,  terrible 
to  destroy.  You  cannot  reconcile  it  with  your  or- 
dinary associations  —  with  your  \entiments  of  moral 
harmony ;  it  is  incongruous ;  a  rejoicing  in  an  hospi- 
tal, a  feast  in  a  famine-ship,  a  dance  in  a  charnel- 
house,  a  bridal  in  a  sepulchre ;  your  heart  becomes 
convulsed,  your  head  giddy,  your  imagination  confused 
and  sick.  You  look  upon  a  social  class  that  bewilders 
you,  and  you  turn  from  the  whole  with  loathing  and 
disgust. 

The  social  system  in  Ireland  is  disjointed  and  defec- 
tive. The  great  proprietors  are  absentees,  and  the 
small  ones  are  impoverished.  Another  decisive  evil 
in  the  social  state  of  Ireland  is,  the  want  of  due  grada- 
tion.    Where  there  is  not  general  equality,  there  ought 


292  LECTURES  AND  ESSAYS. 

to  be  successive  ranks.  But  society  in  Ireland  exists 
only  in  extremes.  The  two  main  divisions  of  it  are 
the  owners  of  the  soil,  and  its  occupiers ;  and  between 
these  there  seems  a  gulf,  which  one  cannot  pass  to 
companion  with  the  other.  To  fill  up  this  wide  interval, 
there  is  wanted  an  active  and  enterprising  middle  class. 
Except  in  the  learned  professions,  social  eminence  in 
Ireland  belongs  only  to  the  ownership  of  land.  Money 
in  Ireland  has  not  accumulated  into  capital ;  industry 
has  not  risen  to  ambition  ;  and,  thence,  while  in  Eng* 
land  men  climb  from  labor  to  aristocracy,  in  Ireland 
men  descend  from  aristocracy  to  labor. 

But  the  most  grievous  need  of  Ireland  is  the  want  of 
variety  in  occupation.^  Externally,  Ireland  is  finely  situa- 
ted for  commerce ;  internally,  she  is  admirably  consti- 
tuted for  manufactures.  Commerce  and  manufactures 
would  not  only  train  the  people  to  skill  and  independence, 
but  relieve  the  soil  from  the  pressure  of  an  excessive  pop- 
ulation. The  soil  is  the  only  source  of  life,  and  out  of 
this  fact  come  many  evils ;  one  of  the  worst  is,  that  of 
extreme  competition.  Every  vacant  spot  becomes  an 
object  of  deadly  strife.  It  is  generally  given  to  that 
person  who  offers  the  highest  price,  and  shouts  the 
loudest  promise.  He  soon  finds  out  in  his  despair,  that 
he  has  undertaken  too  much.  The  landlord  has  spent 
no  capital  on  it ;  the  tenant  has  none  to  spend  ;  and  of 


SPIRIT    OF    IRISH   HISTORY.  293 

the  produce  which  is  torn  from  its  savage  nakedness, 
the  bulk  goes  to  the  absent  proprietor  and  to  the  estab- 
lished church.  The  soil  deteriorates  ;  the  landlord 
will  not  lower  his  demands  ;  the  tenant  cannot  pay 
them,  and  he  is  ejected.  The  landlord  gives  his  place 
to  another,  and  the  ruined  tenant  knows  not  where  to 
find  a  shelter.  Though  law  has  driven  him  out  from 
his  familiar  hearth,  nature  compels  him  to  return.  He 
will  prowl  around  the  miserable  abode  that  gave  his 
poverty  a  refuge  ;  the  hut  that  gave  his  little  ones  a 
home ;  the  roof  that  shielded  the  mother  of  his  chil- 
dren. He  cannot  reason,  his  blood  rushes  back  to  its 
fountains,  his  whole  nature  is  excited  ;  his  brain  is  con- 
vulsed in  delirium  ;  he  is  mad  in  his  houseless  distrac- 
tion ;  and  in  his  madness,  he  slays,  perhaps,  his 
blameless  successor.  His  former  landlord  is,  possibly, 
a  magistrate.  This  magistrate  hands  him  to  the  con- 
stable ;  the  constable  delivers  him  to  the  judge ;  after 
due  forms  of  trial,  the  judge  consigns  him  to  the  execu- 
tioner ;  and  the  executioner  closes  the  tragedy.  This 
is  but  one  of  a  hundred,  that  vary  little  in  plot  or  inci- 
dent. The  scaffold  is  the  stage,  with  which,  as  yet, 
Ireland  has  been  the  best  acquainted ;  and  on  that  she 
has  witnessed  many  a  terrible  drama,  black,  silent, 
bloody,  and  monstrous! 

Who  does  not  seei&ttxih^e  circumstances,  rudely  as 


294  LECTURES  AND  ESSAYS. 

I  have  described  them,  the  sources  of  enormous  evils  ? 
Passions,  the  deepest  and  most  lasting,  were  kindled 
and  kept  burning  by  crushing  men  upon  their  own  soil, 
by  irritating  them  in  those  sentiments  that  all  but  the 
b£isest  hold  in  reverence.  Education  was  not  only 
withheld,  but  punished ;  trade  was  not  advanced,  but 
restricted  ;  home  industry  was  suppressed,  and  foreign 
commerce  was  forbidden  ;  and  yet,  men  are  now 
wondering  that  this  work  of  folly  and  of  guilt  should  still 
be  felt.  Why,  it  is  not  greatly  over  half  a  century,  since 
any  change  for  the  better  even  began.  But  the  effects 
of  such  a  work  does  not  pass  away  in  fifty  years. 

What  other  effects,  than  those  which  we  have 
seen,  could  be  expected?  Discontent,  that  outlives 
the  provocation ;  anger,  that  survives  the  wrong ; 
disorganization,  that  follows  servitude  and  misrule  ; 
ignorance,  deep  and  wide-spread,  that  bad  legisla- 
tion had  long  compelled,  and  that  the  best  cannot 
hastily  remove ;  idleness,  that  law  made  a  habit  or  a 
necessity ;  poverty,  coming  out  of  idleness  ;  crime  and 
misery,  issuing  from  both,  a  complication  of  entangled 
difficulties  that  shakes  the  hope  of  the  philanthropist, 
and  that  baffles  the  wisdom  of  the  statesman. 

But  the  evils  indicate  their  own  remedies  ;  and  it  is 
encouraging  to  see,  in  the  progress  of  recent  events,  that 
national  instincts  are  taking  the  direction  that  will  grad- 


SPIRIT    OF    IRISH   HISTORY.  295 

ually  ameliorate  national  calamities.  The  Irish  peo- 
ple must  be  respected ;  and  they  must  be  practically 
respected ;  they  must  have  their  due  share  in  the 
legislation  of  the  empire,  and  they  must  be  fully  repre- 
sented, according  to  their  numbers,  their  power,  and 
their  interests.  There  must  grow  up  in  Ireland,  too, 
a  social  unity.  Men  of  the  same  atmosphere  must 
learn  to  love,  and  not  to  hate  each  other ;  they  must 
join  heart  and  hand,  to  promote  the  good  of  their  com- 
mon country ;  they  must  have  hope  for  what  is  to 
come  ;  they  must  have  pardon  for  what  is  past.  The 
law  of  tenure  must  be  changed  ;  the  tenant  must  be 
protected.  The  landlord  shall  not  be  denied  his  rights ; 
but  he  must  be  made  to  feel  his  duties.  If  he  will  not 
be  true  to  his  obligations,  like  all  criminals,  he  ought  to 
meet  with  punishment;  and  the  punishment  he  can 
most  feel,  would  be  punishment  on  his  purse.  This, 
when  written,  was  prophesy  ;  much  of  it  is  now  histo- 
ry ;  and  the  landlords  have  so  contrived  matters,  as  to 
prepare  the  punishment  for  themselves.  Relieve  the 
land  of  the  horrible  pressure  that  is  on  it ;  call  in  the 
amount  of  stalwart  muscle  that  withers  away  in  idle- 
ness, to  healthy  manufactures;  let  young  men  and 
maidens,  that  wander  over  earth  for  leave  to  toil,  have 
but  that  liberty  given  them  upon  their  own  green  island  ; 
and  I  shall  challenge  the  world  to  show  a  happier  or  a 


296  LECTURES  AND  ESSAYS. 

handsomer  race,  men  more  generous,  or  women  more 
lovely. 

O,  that  all  classes  and  all  creeds  would  unite  in 
a  broad  and  generous  sentiment  of  nationality ;  not  a 
nationality  of  vanity  and  prejudice,  but  a  nationality  of 
brotherhood  and  peace.  This  would  be  for  Ireland  the 
day  of  her  regeneration.  To  the  eye,  she  is  fair,  in- 
deed, among  the  nations  ;  but  to  the  heart,  her  beauty 
has  been  covered  with  sadness.  Her  fields  are  luxu- 
riant, and  her  hills  are  green ;  yet  the  lot  of  her  chil- 
dren has  been  in  tears  and  blood.  History,  whose 
work  at  best  is  but  melancholy,  has  written  her  story 
in  despair.  Hunger  has  lingered  in  her  valleys  ;  sick- 
ness in  her  dwellings ;  sin  and  madness  in  her  secret 
places.  Nature  has  given  her  a  great  largeness  of 
bounty.  Cattle  cover  her  plains ;  the  horn  of  plenty 
has  been  emptied  on  her  vales  ;  but  sorrow  and  a  curse 
have  rained  a  blight  on  all.  The  airs  of  heaven  blow 
upon  her  freshly  ;  but  they  swell  no  sails,  except  those 
which  are  to  bear  her  children  into  exile.  The  glorious 
sea  girds  her  about ;  but  it  washes  the  shores  of  solitary 
harbors,  and  dashes  an  unloaded  wave  upon  a  virgin 
sand.  A  race  of  no  mean  capacities  have  lived  in  huts 
unworthy  of  the  savage,  and  upon  food  almost  too 
wretched  for  the  brutes. 

Ought   it   to  be   thus  ?     Is  this  the  design  of  na- 


SPIRIT   OF   IRISH   HISTORY.  297 

tiire  ?  Is  this  the  order  of  Providence  ?  Is  this  a 
fatal  and  perpetual  necessity  ?  No,  no,  it  is  against 
the  design  of  nature  ;  it  reverses  the  order  of  Provi- 
dence ;  and  the  only  necessity  that  belongs  to  it,  is 
that  which  springs  from  misrule,  mismanagement,  and 
disunion.  Let  there  be  but  a  united  people,  and  it 
cannot  be  longer  thus  ;  let  divisions  be  abolished  by 
a  holy  love  of  country,  combined  interests  and  com- 
bined activity  will  issue  in  general  prosperity ;  let  party 
names  be  lost  in  Irishman,  and  Irishman  be  a  word  for 
patriot ;  then,  the  sun  of  a  new  era  will  bathe  with 
glory  "  the  emerald  set  in  the  midst  of  the  sea ;  "  then, 
will  the  land  of  a  common  birth,  be  the  land  of  a  com- 
mon heart ;  and  then, 

"  Howe'er  crowns  and  coronets  be  rent, 
A  virtuous  populace  will  rise  the  while, 
And  stand,  a  wall  of  fire  around  their  much-loved  isle." 

The  course  of  these  observations  has  led  us  along  pain- 
ful topics,  but  we  will  not  leave  them  in  despondency. 
If  days  which  are  gone,  have  left  but  painful  memories, 
days  that  are  to  come  may  cheer  us  with  bright  and 
gracious  hopes.  If  a  soil  the  most  fertile,  has  borne 
but  a  starving  peasantry ;  if  noble  rivers  have  flowed 
unburdened  to  the  sea ;  if  capacious  harbors  have  been 


298  LECTURES  AND  ESSAYS. 

ruffled  by  no  freighted  keels ;  if  mines  of  wealth  have 
slumbered  untouched  in  the  sleeping  earth ;  still,  I  do 
not  despair  for  my  country.  The  soil  is  there  yet  in 
its  beauty,  and  its  children  may  yet  live  upon  its  full- 
ness ;  the  rivers  are  yet  majestic,  and  will  not  always 
be  a  solitude  ;  the  broad  and  sheltered  bay,  that  now 
mirrors  but  the  mountains  and  the  heavens,  may  yet 
reflect  the  snowy  drapery  of  many  a  gallant  ship  ;  and 
the  hills  on  which  now  the  ragged  and  dejected  shep- 
herd wanders,  may  yet  yield  up  their  treasures  to  the 
light.  Nature  is  not  dead ;  nature  is  not  dead  in  the 
works  of  creation  or  in  the  soul  of  man  ;  nature  is  not 
dead,  but  ever  in  its  generous  beauty  covers  and  sup- 
ports us.  No  foolish  passions  can  dry  up  the  kindly 
heart  of  earth,  or  consume  the  fatness  of  the  clouds,  or 
shut  out  the  glory  of  the  skies.  Nature  yet  survives  ; 
survives  in  her  limitless  bounty,  survives  in  her  eternal 
youth;  and  the  people,  though  impoverished,  are  not 
destroyed.''  No  wrongs  have  been  able  to  crush  them  ; 
no  wars  to  render  them  inhuman.  From  every  savage 
influence,  they  have  come  forth,  not  indeed  uninjured, 
but  yet  not  deeply  degraded,  nor  ruthlessly  depraved. 
From  the  worst  experience  in  the  history  of  nations, 
they  have  saved  elements  of  excellence  that  may  be 
shaped  into  the  noblest  civilization.  From  a  long  and 
dreary  night  of  bondage,  they  have  escaped  with  the 


SPIRIT    OF   IRISH   HISTORY. 

vivid  intellect,  the  cheerful  temper,  the  affectionate 
spirit,  the  earnest,  the  hopeful  enthusiasm  that  springs 
elastic  from  every  sorrow. 

The  hour  now  seems  dark  in  Ireland,  but  the  light  is 
not  quenched  ;  it  is  only  for  a  season  obscured.  The 
cloud  is  thick  and  broad ;  it  rests  heavily  over  the 
shivering  millions ;  it  is  most  dreary,  and  it  seems 
filled  with  threatenings  ;  but  the  moveless  sun  is  shining 
tranquilly  above  it,  in  the  benignant  and  the  everlasting 
heavens.  The  cloud  may  break  in  tempest ;  but  still- 
ness and  beauty  will  come  when  the  hurricane  has 
spent  its  strength,  and  the  storm  has  passed  away. 
But  no  tempest  will,  possibly,  come  at  all.  The  cloud 
may  dissolve  in  rain ;  it  may  give  freshness,  where  it 
had  only  given  gloom,  and  cool  the  ardor  of  the  beams 
which  it  had  excluded.  Dark  skies  bring  lightning; 
lightning  brings  the  shower ;  then  comes  the  sunshine 
on  the  grass,  and  all  the  fields  are  sparkling  with  glory 
and  with  gems. 

Let  me  so  think  of  the  moral  atmosphere  that 
now  hangs  around  and  over  Ireland.  It  is  not  to 
continue.  God  is  in  his  universe,  and  guides  the 
nations  in  their  way.  We  will  hold  to  our  goodly  trust, 
and  in  the  strength  of  that  earnest  trust,  we  will  firmly 
believe  that  He  has  rich  blessings  yet  in  store  for  Ire- 
land.    Where,  often,  we  can  see  nothing  but  evil,  our 


300  LECTURES    AND    ESSAYS. 

gracious  Father  is  preparing  good ;  and  we  will  so 
believe  it  now,  for  sad,  afflicted,  mourning  Ireland.  O, 
land  of  my  heart,  of  my  fathers,  and  my  birth  I  I  will 
ever  keep  it  in  my  thoughts,  that  God  is  looking  down 
upon  you  with  pity  and  with  grace,  and  that  He  will 
call  you  up  more  brightly  from  your  calamity.  The 
times,  indeed,  seem  bad,  but  suffering  will  leave  its 
blessing.  Plenty  will  come  again ;  and  humility,  and 
gratitude,  and  mercy,  and  penitent  and  softened  hearts 
will  come  along  with  it.  Peace  will  be  established  ; 
confidence  will  come  with  peace;  capital  will  follow 
confidence ;  employment  will  increase  with  capital ; 
education  will  be  desired  ;  knowledge  will  be  diffused ; 
and  virtue  will  grow  with  knowledge.  Yet,  even  if 
these  things  should  not  soon  be ;  if  all  that  is  now  anti* 
cipated,  should  long  be  hope  deferred,  and  many  a 
heart  should  sicken  in  waiting  for  relief;  yet,  I  will  not 
despond,  I  will  not  despond  for  Ireland ;  I  will  not 
despond  for  humanity;  I  will  entertain  no  doubt  in  the 
agency  which  guides  the  world,  and  no  mistrust  in  the 
destiny  whereunto  the  world  moves. 


END   OF   VOL.   I. 


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